


Closing Time

by McVetty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alphas ruined everything, Character Death, Future AU, Hurt Stiles, Original Character(s), References to Suicide, Slow Build, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McVetty/pseuds/McVetty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Alphas came, things went to hell. Stiles has been alone for two years. Abandoned by the people he called his friends, he turned to alcohol to numb the pain. Then, one innocuous day, Derek Hale walks back into his life as if he had never left. The Hale pack is looking to take Beacon Hills back, and the Alphas aren't looking to give it up easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Curtain Call. Red velvet parts. The stage is set. Bright lights._ And then nothing. Nothing but the cold reality of a glass of ice that once held scotch, and bleary amber eyes blinking away the past. He was never in a play, he was never _in_. He was just the outcast, the one that drifted, the one that didn't matter. After High School, his life had taken a nosedive faster than a jet in enemy airspace. Now he was here, tail-spinning out of control in what was left of Beacon Hills, the last of his kind. He had never taken the bite, he hadn't been _brave_ enough to say yes, but he was still just as much part of the crazy world of werewovles as the others had been. He was a lone wolf, an omega, and omegas... well, omegas never lasted long without a pack. The Argents and Derek Hale had proven that. And without a pack...

Stiles Stilinski wasn't keeping as well as most.

Things took a turn for the worse when school started back up. The Alpha pack slipped into Beacon Hills one night and nothing was the same. Sure, they stayed around the edges for a while, poking and prodding and pretending, but they never showed their true strength, not until school started back up, when the Hale pack had been thoroughly disarmed. The Alpha pack gave them time to breath before the coming storm, and what a storm it was. A shitstorm of epic proportions and-

“Bartender,” he barked, cutting into his own thoughts.

The bartender sauntered over, dropping a rag to the bar and thudding an empty glass beside it. Stiles didn't notice. Or he didn't care. Both. He didn't look up from the melting ice in his glass. In fact, he hadn't looked up since sitting at the corner of the bar two hours ago and staking out the six seats nearest to him. After a while, people stopped sitting beside him, they stopped trying to talk to him, but he didn't dwell on it. Much.

“One more,” he said.

“ _One more_ is what you said five drinks ago,” the Bartender snorted, taking Stiles' glass grudgingly. “You have money to pay for this?”

“I always have money.”

“Great way to spend it.”

Stiles snorted, but it came out as more of a cough, and he covered his mouth with the back of his hand. When he recovered sufficiently to snark back, the bartender was gone and a new glass of scotch sat before him. He set on it like a ravenous beast – really he should be by now – and continued on his previous line of thought.

Barbies. They were so disproportionate. Lydia spent an entire summer trying to look like one, and Stiles had picked out an entire wardrobe of Ken-worthy outfits from the local thrift store with his allowance and _that_ was why he had such a damn surplus of checkered shirts. Barbies were ruining the fabric of – something didn't feel quite right about that train of thought, and he scrapped it. Something probed at his mind, and he sucked down a gulp of scotch to chase it away. No use dwelling on the past, that was why he drank in the first place. Alcohol made what the Alphas did _bearable_ , if what they had done could be called that. Bad enough losing one parent, let alone two, and in front of you. Stiles grit his teeth, but there it was, rearing its ugly head.

Stiles always had money, because his father's life insurance was covering his slow suicide.

When he tilted back the glass, it was empty. He scowled at it and wished there was another bar he could go to, one with bigger glasses or one that would just give him the whole bottle. He wished that Danny was still around, and hadn't gone to college in Sacramento. That Erica and Boyd were still creeping him out, that Isaac was still trying to act like the tough guy they all knew he wasn't. That Scott and Allison hadn't vanished, that Lydia was still around and over Jackson, all of whom had vanished and never returned to Beacon Hills. Even Derek and Peter Hale hadn't come back. Mrs. McCall was gone, and Stiles had no one to turn to. No one, except alcoholism and the company that a room full of strangers seemed to offer.

After the Alphas came, the entire pack vanished. Stiles figured they were dead, it was the only explanation. They wouldn't abandon him, would they? They were his _friends_ , he had risked his life to help them. They would do the same... right? The doubt gnawed at his mind, poisoning him slowly. The Alphas still ran the town. They were everywhere. One of them was the new sheriff. All of that, for what? To prove to a two-bit nobody like Derek Hale that they were better than him? What did they have to gain from the whole thing?

Some nights, Stiles sat up until his brain hurt, trying to understand. On those nights, he cried himself to sleep. Rather than have one of those nights again, he had slipped into this bar, presented his fake ID, and started drinking. Heavily. The bartender never really saw his face, and he never really saw the bartender's face, and it was better that way. He didn't really want to think about what would happen... But his father wasn't sheriff anymore, so what did he care? He didn't. He slammed the class on the counter several times.

“What?” the bartender snarled, stalking over with a bar rag gripped in his fist.

“More.”

“I can _smell_ you, you reek of alcohol. When is the last time you showered?” the bartender scolded, swiping away the glass. He didn't rerurn it, not empty or full. He kept it in his hand. “I shouldn't be giving you anything.”

Stiles tugged at his pocket, pulling out a crumbled bill. When he flattened it and pushed it to the bartender, he noticed it was a hundred dollar bill. He scoffed. “Scotch. No rocks.”

The bartender scowled, though Stiles didn't see it, and filled the glass again. He gave it to Stiles, holding on to it a little longer than necessary. Their fingers brushed as Stiles reached for it, but the bartender didn't remove his hand. “Last one. Closing time in ten.”

“You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here,” Stiles mumbled.

“Something like that, yeah,” the bartender said, letting the glass go.

Stiles ran a pale hand through his hair. It had grown longer since the Alphas took over. He discovered, purely by accident of a six month hospital stay, that hair made him nigh unrecognizable to his former enemies, friends, and... well, he didn't have family and to this day he still hadn't gotten laid. What was his life doing with itself? Autopilot had certainly malfunctioned somewhere along the way. The glass of scotch beckoned to him, and who was he to deny it? He gulped half the glass and realized quite suddenly that he had to piss. He got to his feet unsteadily, gripping the bar for support. He considered telling the bartender where he was going, but gave up halfway to opening his mouth. It was a challenge enough to stand up, he didn't want to complicate it by trying to speak. He stumbled to the men's room, quickly discovering he was more intoxicated than he had first thought. One hand on the wall, the other clutching his head as if he could stop the vertigo, he stared down the stained urinal like a bull fighter.

 

 

 

He woke up on his knees, heaving into a greasy bar room toilet, knuckles white clutching the edge. The stall door was open behind him, and the lights were flickering in a state of on-or-off-who-fucking-knows. The contents of the toilet bowl, when he became brave enough to look, included his liquid diet plan and a cigarette butt. His only real thought on that was; _I hope I didn't eat that._

Having no strength to go anywhere, and desperately trying to will away a massive swirling headache, he set his forehead against the toilet seat and told himself he would scrub for three days when he got home. If he got home. At this point, it didn't really matter. In fact, sleeping right there in the stall would be totally cool if the total dickwad of a bartender didn't find him and tell him to get out. It would certainly save him a trip back when the bar opened, and maybe he could drink himself to death while everyone was home. The thought of the cops being called on him nearly motivated him to move, but Stiles Stilinski was down for the count, clinging to a toilet bowl for dear life. Things were looking pretty rough.

They looked considerably rougher when the door opened, and Stiles had the sudden urge to pray to the currently-stainless-steel god again. He wasn't sure there was anything left in his stomach, but somewhere his body found more for him to throw up, and it all came rushing out, everywhere and up his nose. He heard a distressed noise, a whimpering whine, and it took him a moment to realize it was _him_ making those noises. _Way to keep it together, Stilinski._

Hands grabbed him roughly around the shoulders, and out of instinct he clung harder to the bowl, flailing as he tried to wrap his legs around it.

“Stop fighting me, you drunken asshole,” the bartender growled dangerously.

“Stiles stopped fighting, but didn't let go of the toilet. “Are you going to give me a swirly?” he moaned dejectedly.

The bartender stopped tugging at Stiles' shoulders.

“Hey, 's fine, I guess, whatever cracks your walnut,” Stiles said, going limp and letting his forehead rest against the toilet.

The barkeep pulled him roughly from the stall, shoving him against the wall, propped like a doll. “Stiles,” he said flatly.

“Shit, did I give you the wrong ID?” Stiles asked, but it didn't seem to matter, because he was pushing himself to his feet and stumbling to the sink to wash his mouth out and scrub soap onto his forehead. He moved like a marionette with several missing strings and an epileptic puppetmaster.

“I've been serving you _alcohol_!” the barkeep shouted, part question but more accusation. “I could have gone to prison!”

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled, mouth full of water, suds dripping down his face.

The bartender was livid. Stiles half expected him to slam his head into a wall and walk away. “What are you doing in a bar? What happened to you?” the bartender demanded.

Stiles swayed at the sink, staring at the man's reflection as he rubbed a paper towel across his forehead. “Wouldn't you like to know, you asshole.”

“Do you even _recognize_ me?” the bartender asked.

Stiles shrugged, swaying dangerously at the sink, barely catching himself. “Everyone I know is dead. You're not dead. I don't recognize you.”

“Everyone you know is _not_ dead!” the bartender snarled, grabbing Stiles by the shoulders, turning them face-to-face. “Scott and Allison and Lydia and Jackson, they're all _alive_ , you idiot!”

“That's great. Where have they been these last two years? Goes to show they don't care two shits for Stilinski, doesn't it?” he spat angrily.

“We thought you were _dead._ The Alphas...”

“We?” Stiles asked, seeming to sober up for a split second. He tried to focus on the face swimming in front of him, but no immediate features presented themselves, save for that intensely angry scowl. “We who?”

“The pack. The whole pack, you _idiot_. We left when the Alphas killed your dad. When we thought they killed _you_.”

Stiles stiffened, body going rigid. “No.”

The bartender grit his teeth, the scowl seeming perfectly etched into his rugged, stubbled face. “Stiles, we didn't leave you.”

Perhaps not the response the bartender was looking for, Stiles felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks. Alcohol did lovely, wonderful, horrible things to his ability to control himself, mainly that he couldn't, at all. Things started to gain focus though the tears, and he lifted both hands to clutch the bartender's shirt sleeves, clinging so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“Derek?” His voice was small, hopeful beyond hope, as if being wrong would shatter him completely.

The bartender smiled, dull and irritated and forced on his otherwise scowling face. “You're a complete idiot.”

Stiles found his chest tightening, a sudden pressure in his throat, stopping him from speaking. He had to swallow several times before the tightness let up. “Did you come back for me?”

Derek paused, searching Stiles' face before answering. “We came to take Beacon Hills back.”

Stiles felt all the strength go out of him. Derek tried to hold him up, but they ultimately slid to the floor. With red, far away eyes, Stiles looked up at the alpha, immeasurable sadness swimming in the dull amber gaze. “I was kind of hoping I would be dead by now,” he admitted.

Derek's grip on Stiles tightened, fingers digging into his arm.

“I'm kind of glad I survived now,” he added distantly. “Not that rescuing me was your plan, but you can change plans, right?”

Derek cleared his throat, nodded once. “Scott will be glad to see you.”

There was a long pause.

“Stiles,” Derek began cautiously. His arms were around Stiles, holding him up off the floor. “I never... you were pack, I should have come back, we didn't see a body...”

Stiles shook his head. “Hospital. Six months,” he said. The world was still spinning around him, but things were coming in sharper focus now that Derek was with him, holding him. He had thought about it before, a few times, but now that Derek was really there, really touching him, and not threatening him but actually _helping_ him, well, he was starting to think about it again. Derek Hale? Yeah, Stiles had thought about it, but he had never gone further. No, why would he? Whenever they were in the same room, Derek was threatening to rip his throat out, and Stiles was certain that wasn't a secret code for wanting to ravish him in bed.

Derek shook him, hard. “Stiles, wake up. Where do you live now? I'm going to bring you home,” Derek said firmly.

“No,” Stiles managed, fear ebbing into his voice. “Not my place, anywhere but my place.”

Derek frowned, pulled a face, but didn't argue. “Fine. My place then. If you puke on anything...”

Derek couldn't bring himself to elaborate the threat, as he had countless times before the Alpha invasion. Instead, he helped Stiles to his feet and half-carried him out of the bar, to a familiar black Camero with a few more scratches and dents than the last time Stiles saw it. After a tedious ten minute battle with the seat belt, Stiles threw his hands up and made a strangled, distressed noise that Derek feared would turn into full-on sobbing, _over a seat belt_. The alpha buckled in the inebriated human, patting him on the chest before closing the door. When Derek opened the drivers door to get in, Stiles was already asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Two and a half years of alcoholism and self-imposed solitude were going to be hell to break, as Derek Hale would soon find out. After getting to his modest apartment, Derek carried Stiles in and dropped him on the couch, discontent to learn that the already scrawny human had only grown more scrawny since the last time they saw each other. Derek wondered when Stiles had eaten last, but as the drunkard was passed out, he didn't really have the occasion to ask. Instead, he draped a threadbare blanket over Stiles' shoulders, propped a pillow beneath his head, and left the bathroom waste can beside the couch, just in case.

Content that Stiles could do little to hurt himself or Derek's home, the alpha retreated to his own bedroom for a well-deserved rest. Six hours later, he woke with a sudden start. Somewhere in his apartment, water was running. He swung his legs off the bed, feet touching the floor softly. He listened closer, then stood and walked to his door. The bathroom door was wide open, steam billowing from the doorway. Derek scrunched his face in irritation, though he couldn't say he'd gotten six hours of sleep in a long while, so he didn't have it in him to start bitching first thing in the morning. He neglected his clothes, piled up on the floor, and padded into the hallway in his striped boxers. The waste bin he had left beside the couch for Stiles was inside the door to the bathroom. Derek tried not to make a face at the contents, but it was somewhat difficult. He stepped into the doorway, about to say something, but stopped and stood in shocked silence.

Stiles stood naked beneath the running water, his body clearly visible through the clear shower curtain. His hair slicked down his face, covering just past his eyes, water dripping from his chin, running down his thin frame. A wicked gash was jagged down his side, scarred over. More scars traced his body, little ones and larger ones, though the most concentrated scars were on his back. Derek cursed his decision to buy a liner and not a full shower curtain, quickly stepping back around the bathroom door before Stiles was aware he had even been there. Derek's heart hammered in his chest with an unidentified _feeling_ , but he didn't give time to analyze it, back pressed against the wall.

“Stiles,” he called, after clearing his throat and gaining back his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“How long are you going to be in there? I, uh, was going to make food.”

“I'll be out in a minute,” Stiles said.

A minute in Stiles-time turned out to be thirty, and by the time he walked into the kitchen, wearing last night's filthy clothes, Derek had already made and eaten breakfast. He was sitting at the small kitchen table, pouring over the newspaper for the day, and only looked up once Stiles had stopped awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen. They looked at each other for a moment, as if both trying to recognize the other. Derek had changed, that much was true. He looked older, more weathered, with crows feet beside his eyes and a scowl set permanently on his face. His stubble was untamed, his hair doubly so, and his eyes were tired.

“Food in the fridge,” Derek said, inclining his head towards the small white fridge.

Stiles went to it silently, pulling out the plate that Derek had made for him. French Toast and bacon. Stiles greedily scarfed the food down before he got to the table, and set the empty dish in the sink. He sat at the only other chair at the table. Derek put the newspaper down.

“So you're here to take Beacon Hills back,” Stiles said.

“I'm surprised you remember that,” Derek replied.

“Two years, you adapt.”

Derek didn't flinch at the accusation. He was going to get used to Stiles taking chunks out when he wasn't paying attention.

“Are you the only one here?”

“No, Scott and Allison are on the other side of town.”

“They know you're here,” Stiles said.

“They don't, actually,” Derek answered.

“How don't they know? They can smell you.”

“Doctor Deaton has assured us, the Alphas have no idea we're here.”

“Deaton. That traitor? You trust him?”

“The Alphas think he's working for them, but I know better. Deaton is a family friend, he wouldn't betray a Hale.”

Stiles didn't seem to find comfort in that explanation. He glared at Derek across the table. “How long have you been here?”

Derek matched his stare. “Two weeks.”

“Awfully convenient that you didn't look for me.”

“We thought you were dead,” Derek said, gritting his teeth. “Are you going to keep poking holes in me, or are you going to shut up and listen to our plan?”

Stiles nearly fought back, opened his mouth to spout off some snarky remark like he used to, but he restrained himself, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

Derek tried not to show his disappointment. “Scott, Allison, and Lydia have been here for a week. Allison is moving in Chris' weapons by the day. The Argents, at least the ones that are left, are on our side for this.”

“And after this?”

“It goes back to how it was.”

“Was that Chris' idea?”

“Actually, Chris Argent is much more inclined to be on our side at all times, after this last six months.”

Stiles arched an eyebrow, but he didn't ask what Derek meant. Derek didn't elaborate, and plunged on with his plan.

“Erica and Boyd are on the south end of town. Jackson and Danny are-”

“Wait, did you say _Danny_?” Stiles interrupted.

“Danny...” Derek hesitated, the realization dawning on his face. “Danny took the bite. Last year.”

“Oh.”

“Jackson and Danny are on the north side of Beacon Hills, ready to move in at my signal. When the Argents meet up with them, and when Allison and Scott have found the _Alpha_ of the Alphas, we're going to move.”

“Move, and do what, exactly?” Stiles asked skeptically.

“Take them out. We have enough wolfsbane bullets to take out thirty wolves. If we don't kill them, we maim them and weaken them. They think they won, but they'll be surprised when we show up. They wont expect it.”

Stiles was shaking his head. Derek frowned, the scowl going deeper onto his face.

“Why not?”

“There are more than thirty of them. The entire police department is made up of alphas. They're in the banks, in the hospital, the super markets. You're never going to find the ringleader because they're _all_ ringleaders. You killed Riley, and you thought that it was over, didn't you? That's how this is, Derek. You kill one, and they don't notice.”

“Then we'll kill them all.”

Stiles leaned forward in his chair, an intense look on his pale face. “All of them, Derek? Really? You don't have the means to kill all of them, even with a pack of wolves and a gang of hunters, you're not going to make a dent. They'll wipe you out before you raise a finger.”

Derek scowled. “You don't give me any credit.”

“I'm trying to keep you _alive_.”

“What would you suggest, then?” Derek asked.

Stiles hesitated, leaned back and frowned thoughtfully. “Run.”

“Is that your answer? Run? Just leave with our tails tucked between our legs?” Derek demanded, his voice raising.

Stiles returned the anger tenfold, amber eyes blazing. “If you're smart, you'll run. You did it before and didn't seem to have much of a problem then.”

Derek scowled at him, getting up from the table. “This time is different,” he snapped.

“Oh, I'm sure it is,” Stiles answered sarcastically.

Derek gave him one last look before walking out of the kitchen. The front door opened, and Stiles almost got up to chase him down, to keep fighting, but he didn't have the energy and he didn't know what to say. The door creaked on its hinges, and Derek spoke.

“You can stay here as long as you need to,” he said gruffly. Then the door slammed, sending a shudder through the entire apartment.

Stiles wasted no time at all finding the alcohol stash. After searching the usual places, he finally came up victorious with a bottle of Crown Royal from beneath Derek's bed, and brought it to the couch with him. He flipped on the television, sat down, and cracked open the bottle. Two hours of channel surfing during the daytime soaps later, he was passed out, the bottle of Crown dropped on the floor, half empty.

A difficult habit to break, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will attempt to the best of my ability to post updates weekly. Thank you so much for reading and being patient with me! This chapter was short, but not all of them will be that way!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by a the ever-amazing thaddeusscreams who quite possibly might be my favorite online friend of the year if we were giving out those kind of awards (thank you, again!)

Derek returned that night, hours past bar close, reeking of secondhand smoke and booze. Stiles woke up to the sound of the door slamming, but didn't move from the couch. He didn't even attempt to hide the half-empty bottle of Crown Royal, or the fact that he hadn't done a single thing all day that didn't involve a horizontal position. Derek stomped through the apartment like it was normal for people to be awake at four in the morning, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf. When he entered the living room, he growled, low and angry. He paced a few times before stopping beside the kitchen door.

“Stiles.”

Stiles didn't move. He pretended to be sleeping. In fact, he added a soft snore to the effect.

Derek didn’t buy it. “Stiles, I know you're awake. You're a terrible liar.”

Caught by the alpha, Stiles cracked open an eye, wincing at the fluorescent light pouring in through the kitchen. “What?” he asked grumpily.

“Where did you find the Crown Royal?”

“Under your bed.”

Derek grit his teeth. Stiles _swore_ he could hear it from the couch.

“It wasn't yours to take,” Derek said.

“I'll pay you for it.”

“Stiles, I don't want your money. Scott is going to be here in the afternoon. At least clean yourself up for him. You can borrow some of my clothes.”

“They won’t fit me,” Stiles said, pulling a face.

“Consider it payback for making me undress in front of Danny. He still remembers that, by the way.”

Stiles snorted, holding back a laugh. Derek scowled. He was good at that, the scowling.

“I'm going to bed. Wake me up, and I'll rip your throat out with my teeth.” Derek was no longer playing games. He hadn't exactly played the good cop to Stiles, but he had done close enough to good-Derek as he was going to get with pulling the alcoholic out of a toilet and bringing him to a safe place. His nice only went so far. He wasn't born in Minnesota.

Stiles rolled onto his side when Derek closed the bedroom door, pressed his face into the pillows, and tried to fall back asleep. His mind wouldn't let him rest, constantly playing games and bringing up memories as he closed his eyes tighter to get rid of them. He missed Adderall, and he really should have some, but the last time he drank and took Adderall had been a nightmare and he had chosen the worse of two evils. It was like voting for president, which he hadn't done anyway since he had a hangover that day.  
Realizing that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep, he turned back towards the television, grabbed the Crown Royal that Derek hadn't taken and flipped through the channels. He sucked down the bitter liquid, watching infomercials for vacuums and knives and the Magic Bullet. He was disappointed that the Shamwow wasn't in the lineup, no matter how many infomercials he flipped through. Eventually, he stopped at the Slap-Chop commercial, scoffing at the woman's stupidity and the man's ridiculously exaggerated movements. He mumbled incoherently, lapping at the bottle as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

It occurred to him, then, that he did smell. Possibly of alcohol, though more strongly to his nose of old stale vomit and cigarettes. He wrinkled his nose, eyeing Derek's door. He wasn't sure how long the alpha took to fall asleep, or if he would sleep at all, but he did want to get out of the clothes he was in. If Scott was going to come, he wanted to look somewhat decent. That much was true. He might be pissed off at Scott, but he didn't want his ex-best friend to believe he was a homeless alcoholic vagabond. He hadn’t done well on that front, since Derek had probably told Scott already. The werewolf didn't have a very good handle on keeping sensitive issues to himself, Stiles seemed to remember.

Ultimately his drive to please Scott overpowered his drive for doing nothing and he got to his feet shakily. Derek's door loomed on the other end of the hallway, a whopping ten feet away. With one hand on the wall and one hand still clutching the neck of the bottle, he inched his way down the hall. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the sudden sense of dread at opening the door that made everything go wibbly. Around him, the walls and floor tilted like a mirrored funhouse, threatening to off-balance him on mind-power alone. He grit his teeth and pressed on down the hall, reached the door, and suddenly everything righted itself, shimmering into the right place. His hand moved off the wall and gripped the doorknob, which was warm beneath his fingers. How long had it been since Derek stood in the living room? Stiles had lost all track of time in the last two years. Somehow, it didn't bother him to not know.

He pressed the door cautiously, and it opened without protest. For a werewolf supposedly on high alert, Derek didn't stir from the bed where he had apparently just fallen face-first and gone to sleep. His blue ribbed tank slid to one side, revealing the triskelion tattoo rippling across his shoulders with every breath. His jeans had slid down one hip, he was missing one sock, and he was completely gone to the world. Stiles paused in the doorway longer than necessary, transfixed. He shook himself out of it as Derek shifted, but didn't wake. Stiles left the bottle of Crown at the door and stole across the room to the open closet. He tugged a clean gray shirt and the smallest pair of pants he could find, which turned out to be black sweatpants and wouldn't at all help in telling Scott he _wasn't_ a homeless alcoholic vagabond. After a great internal struggle, he slipped a pair of Derek's blue plaid boxers from the dresser beside the closet. He didn't bother with socks; he wasn't going anywhere any time soon.

On his way out of Derek's room, he gave the alpha one last look, trying to judge if he were just playing at being asleep or if he really was dead exhausted. Stiles realized suddenly that he had no idea what Derek did all day, or what he had been doing before Stiles so rudely jumped into his life... or more accurately, puked into it. He pulled a face, willing away the cancerous thoughts before they could gain a firmer grip in his mind. These were people who had abandoned him and if inconveniencing them was going to get under Stiles' skin, he wasn't going to let them know it. He swiped the bottle from the floor and closed the door. The trip down the hallway this time was blissfully normal. He stepped into the shower and deposited his loot on the counter. A look up at the mirror made him wince. The person staring back wasn't anyone he recognized. _Stiles Stilinski must be dead, too,_ he thought sadly. The deep black bruises beneath his eyes screamed of restless nights. His dark brown hair hung thick and limp down his face, nearly covering his eyes. He was pale and gaunt, even more fragile looking than before.

He turned from the mirror, stripped down, and stepped into the shower with the bottle of Crown for breakfast. By the time Scott did make it over he might be nursing a hangover, but he wouldn't be drunk as long as he could finish the Crown so it didn't present any tempting calls. His plan was solid, or at least as solid a plan could be when made by an alcoholic concerning alcohol.  
  


 

  
Scott turned up as Stiles was regretting his decision. The headache throbbed behind his temples, and no matter how many pain killers he popped, it wouldn’t go away. Derek had woken up and not even commented on Stiles wearing his clothes, nor had he questioned the missing bottle of Crown. In fact, Derek just went about his business as if Stiles wasn't even _there_. He even turned the channel on the television to what _he_ wanted to watch when Stiles was sitting on the couch. Stiles suspected the episode of _Intervention_ Derek stopped on wasn't by accident or an actual desire to watch the show. Stiles was actually surprised Derek even _knew_ about the show.

Derek greeted Scott at the door when he knocked, and the pair of them whispered something fiercely before they entered the kitchen. Stiles looked over from the couch, his stomach flipping and fluttering nervously. Scott looked much the same as he stood beneath the fluorescent lights of the kitchen. Older, certainly, and wiser, if only slightly. His hair was curly on his head and it looked like he had tried to tame it only to have it do what it would. He still had a dopey smile, his eyes still screamed of the good he could find in the world. Stiles wanted to bury himself in a fort of pillows and never come back out.

Instead he got to his feet, wincing at the thudding in his head. “Hey, Scott.”

“You're alive,” Scott said happily, brightening. “I... this is awesome, this is great! Your... uh, your hair.”

Stiles reached up, threading his fingers through the long locks. “Yeah, haven't had much time to see a barber.”

Scott stood awkwardly, Stiles stood more awkwardly. Derek scoffed, rolled his eyes – along with his entire _face_ , how did he _do_ that – and left them alone in the kitchen.

“Oh,” Scott said finally, motioning to Stiles' hair. “It... uh, looks nice.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said. There was an awkward pause as he struggled for the small talk he had avoided for two years. “Are you and Allison...”

“Still dating? Yeah, yeah, we, uh, went through some rough stuff,” Scott said, shifting awkwardly, unable to take his eyes from Stiles for more than a second. Two years had driven a wedge between them, and when both thought the other was dead, it had only made for a wider wedge.

A strange silence filled the gap. Stiles ran a hand through his long hair awkwardly, clearing his throat. Scott shifted on his feet, then unexpectedly lunged forward, throwing his arms around Stiles. Stiles staggered back, surprised, and patted Scott on the back. He hoped Scott wouldn't notice the alcohol. The beta squeezed Stiles tighter, then let go to step back as if suddenly aware of personal space.

“I missed you,” he said. “We thought the Alphas killed you, too.”

“So I've heard,” Stiles said stiffly.

“Look, a lot of stuff happened; we had no choice but to leave.”

“Can we not do this?” Stiles asked suddenly. “Can we not play 'give Stiles a million excuses,' because I'm really not fond of that game. I would rather play 'get Stiles out of Beacon Hills,' because that one would be way better by comparison."

“We're taking Beacon Hills _back_ ,” Scott said, confused.

“You're walking into a death sentence,” Stiles corrected.

“A lot of things have changed in two years. The Argents are with us, and we picked up more pack members. We're stronger now,” Scott protested.

“Unless you've managed to obliterate all weaknesses and gained invincibility, you're not going to make a difference,” Stiles maintained.

Scott frowned, staring hard at his friend. “We're taking Beacon Hills back.”

Stiles pursed his lips. “Fine. If you all want to die, go ahead. I tried to tell you, but as usual, you _never_ listen to me.”

“Okay,” Derek said loudly, entering the kitchen with his hands up. “Stop fighting, the both of you. We need you with us on this, Stiles. Come outside. We have something to show you.”

Grumbling, he allowed himself to be led by Scott and Derek. They left the front door of the apartment and walked down three flights of stairs. After looking around for an elevator, Stiles realized there was none. Derek had carried him up the stairs, and he hadn't even known it. Barefoot, he padded after Derek with Scott behind him, as if to stop him from fleeing. Derek pushed open the door, and Stiles stepped through, blinking in the sunlight.

Sitting in the parking lot, beside the black camero, was his jeep. Tightness clenched in his throat as he stared at the old vehicle. The last time he had seen the jeep was when he rolled it. It had been totaled beyond what Stiles could afford to repair. Seeing it now, in front of him, whole and in working order, he could barely form words. He felt himself about to cry, that familiar burning behind his eyes, and he quickly ran a hand down his face.

“You stole my jeep,” he said, though not as flatly as he had wanted to. His voice cracked with emotions that threatened to break him.

Scott jumped on the defensive. “No, we didn't _steal_ your jeep, after the Alphas... and we... well... technically, I guess, yeah, we stole your jeep.” He pulled out the keys. “I've been driving it since we repaired it.”

“It was Scott's idea,” Derek said.

“Are you going to give it back, or should I call the Alpha cops on you?” Stiles asked flatly.  


“Well, about that,” Scott said, hesitating as he looked to Derek. “I still need the jeep for some things... And... hey, we decided we'll give it back to you when you're, you know, _sober_.”  


Stiles groaned. There it was. The catch, and Derek's blabbering lips. Of course he couldn't hide something like this from Scott. After a moment of staring longingly at his jeep, Stiles turned to Scott and lunged for the keys, grabbing at thin air as Scott lifted them above his head – which was a _feat_ , considering how much _shorter_ Scott was than him. Derek grabbed him by the shoulder, effectively stopping his forward momentum without breaking a sweat.  


“It's for your own safety,” Derek said sternly.  


“Okay, _mom_ ,” Stiles snapped.  


Scott clutched the keys in his fist. “Listen, you have to stop drinking. We're back now, we're going to make everything the way it was. To do that, you need to get control of yourself. You helped me when I turned, and now I'm going to help you.” Scott held out his arms, as if they could just embrace, sing around a campfire, and cure him of his dependence.  
Stiles snorted. He didn't want to give in, but something in him refused to disappoint Scott. Something in him had _always_ refused to disappoint Scott, and it had led to his greatest blunders in life. The entire werewolf thing, for instance, had been a huge mistake, but Stiles had stayed by Scott until the end. Or, at least, what he had thought was the end. It turned out it was just part one, and now part two was here to fuck him up the ass in ways he wouldn't enjoy in the least.  


“Fine,” he said after a long silence. Derek released his shoulder and stepped back.  


“Alright,” Scott said happily, beaming from ear to ear. Some things never changed, and Scott's unwavering faith in humanity seemed to be one of them.  


“You're still welcome to stay at my place,” Derek said. “But don't go looking for booze, there's none left.”  


“You expect me to cold-turkey this?” Stiles asked skeptically.

“We'll help you cope,” Scott answered quickly, clapping a hand on Stiles' shoulder. “I'll get Allison and Lydia. They don't know yet. Derek came by to just get me-”

“No,” Stiles said sternly.  


“No?”  


Stiles bristled. “I don't want to _see_ anyone else. I didn't even want to see _you_. What I _want_ to do is go _home_ , but I haven't had one in _two years_.”  


Scott and Derek exchanged glances, silent.  


“I'm sorry,” Scott said finally, but he didn't plunge on to elaborate. He stepped forward, hugged Stiles – who refused to hug back – and backed off. “I'll come by tomorrow. We can go get something to eat, okay?”

Stiles stared at him in silence, grudgingly nodded once, and turned around to return to the apartment building. He had to stand awkwardly at the door while Scott and Derek finished talking because he didn't have a key. He refused to watch Scott get into _his_ jeep and drive away. When Derek finally opened the door, the alpha was as sullen and crab-faced as he had always been. They walked up the stairs in silence, with only Stiles' heavy breathing for company. It had been a long time since he had done any exercise, not that he was _fat_ ; he just wasn't _fit_. When they reached Derek's door, the alpha pulled a key from the ring in his palm and handed it to Stiles.

“That's in case you leave when I'm gone. You can come back.”  


“Moving kind of fast, are we?” Stiles asked.  


“I'm picking out a ring tomorrow, sweetie,” Derek replied sarcastically.  


“I'm partial to ten karat diamonds.”  


Derek's lips twitched in what looked like it _wanted_ to be a grin, but his frown remained firmly in place. “I'll keep that in mind for your birthday.”  


Stiles let Derek walk in the door before him, taking a moment to follow. He wanted to ask, _do you even know my birthday?_ But he didn't. Not because it was a strange question, but because he really didn't want to know the answer. The last two days had turned his boozing world upside down, and now he was struggling to pick up the pieces he wanted and discard the ones he didn't. He still wasn't fully decided on keeping Derek Hale, or even Scott McCall, or _anything_ from before. He could have just as easily left when he got out of the hospital. Instead he hung around waiting to be saved, and now that his old pack had returned, he found that he didn't want saving at all.  


He laid down on the couch, pulled the thin blanket over his head, and tried to get some sleep.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'd, pardon any mistakes

When he woke up, it was dark and nature was calling urgently. He made his way to the bathroom to pee, then realized what had made him wake up in the _first_ place wasn't a full bladder. Another series of loud thumps sounded above his head, and he rubbed his face, waking himself up more. A moment of listening told him the noises above were sexual in nature, and he sighed. Once it had been heard, it could not be un-heard. No matter what he did through the small apartment, he could hear the moans and the _oh yes_ es and the _oh god_ s as clear as day. He walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of water from the tap, and chugged. Derek was gone, off to work or alpha business or who knew what. Stiles didn't care.

Dressed in baggy sweatpants and a shirt two sizes too large, he left the apartment quietly, locking the door behind him. When he checked the time on his phone, it was only eleven. Derek's apartment was on the east side of town, and the nearest bar was, thankfully, not the one he worked at. Stiles checked his wallet to make sure his fake ID was still there, made sure he had money, and began walking. He purposefully stopped himself from thinking about the look on Scott's face if he knew. He didn't want to disappoint Scott, he never did, but two years had left him bitter and resentful enough to pour salt on open wounds without much thought.

The Stray Dog stood between a barber shop and a derelict building with a _'For Sale'_ sign in the boarded-over window. Red paint chipped from the high false front, the words written in big, blocky black letters over the cutout black image of a mongrel dog with one ear held higher than the other and a stubby tail. Stiles generally avoided this bar like the black plague, but for the night, it was better than sitting below a pair of moaning jackrabbits and it certainly beat staying sober any day. He pushed the door in, found an out-of-the-way seat, and ordered a scotch. The bartender, this time Stiles observed who it was instead of ignoring the man, was in his late thirties. A fresh bruise bloomed over his right eye, dark stubble dashed his cheeks, short cropped dark hair clung to his scalp, and he sported a build like a linebacker. To himself, Stiles thought the man could pass as a future version of Derek Hale. To the bartender, he nodded his thanks and took his drink in silence, surprisingly not asked to see his identification, and watched the rest of the bar patrons. After his chance meeting with Derek, he was searching the crowd for more ghosts that might try to pop into his life completely uncalled for.

Seated beside the window were two Alphas, Stiles recognized them from the hostile takeover of the police department. He scowled to himself, wanted to tell them it was bad form for police officers to drink in public, but sipped his scotch and stayed off their radar. He doubted if any of the Alphas knew he was still alive, or if they did, that they cared. That wasn't going to make him take stupid chances. He had a death wish, sure, but in his own time and not by some stranger's choice. His last run-in with Alphas had made up his mind on the whole matter and he wouldn't step back into their business for all the booze in the world. He wouldn't be able to drink it all, anyway.

Time passed in a haze of bar smoke, loud chattering, and terribly chosen jukebox songs. Most of the patrons played country songs, droning old men bemoaning their cheating girlfriends, rusted-out pickups, and dead dogs while still thinking America is great. Stiles managed to drown the music out with scotch and thoughts, not that he particularly _wanted_ the thoughts. They slipped in at random, each less attached to the last as he progressed in glasses. Three glasses in, he had to use the toilet. He downed the last of his fourth, tipped the glass upside down, and made his way to the bar's bathroom. A sign hung over the men's door that read ' _no smoking, no fucking, piss and get out'_ and Stiles grunted, too down to actually smile or laugh at it.

This time, much unlike the last bar bathroom adventure, he managed his way through the piss and even to the sink before feeling like he might puke. Lather ran down his hands as he paused, leaning his hips against the porcelain sink and closing his eyes. When the nausea passed, he opened his eyes and put his hands beneath the lukewarm water, scrubbing away the rest of the soap. He looked at himself in the mirror, noticing that the bags beneath his eyes had progressed into mightily impressive bruises and now made him look like he had gotten into some kind of fist fight.

The door opened, and Stiles froze, staring at the reflection in the mirror. One of the Alphas trudged through the open doorway. Blessedly, the Alpha stepped up to a urinal without a second glance at Stiles. He quickly dried his hands, walked briskly around the Alpha and to the door. As he was walking out, he heard a low chuckle that froze his blood and hurried him out even faster. After two years, the Alphas still scared him shitless. He returned to his seat, not wanting to seem suspicious by suddenly bolting, and ordered another glass of scotch. It was gone before the bartender had moved away, and the man with the black eye took the glass.

“Another?” he asked.

“You know it,” Stiles answered. He pulled out a twenty, pushed it across the counter. “Apply that to my tab.”

“You got it,” the man replied, leaving with the money and returning with a full glass of scotch. “Rough day?” he asked with all the curiosity of a bartender.

“Something like that, yeah,” Stiles answered.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“If you're still here in a half-hour, I'm going to make you tell me about it.”

“I don't think you will.”

“I own a bar,” the man said with a toothy grin. “I think I'll do just fine.”

“Can I get a menu?” Stiles asked.

The man returned with a menu, a faded and plastic-coated thing with crunched letters and crossed out items and three different prices, each previous one slashed out with black marker. Eventually, Stiles picked a hamburger and fries, and told the bartender to bring it out whenever it was ready and it wasn't that much of a rush. Apparently in barspeak, that meant to get the burger out as fast as possible, and Stiles found himself staring down a half-pound patty, lettuce, tomato, oozing mayonnaise, and pickles on a massive sesame bun before he finished his sixth scotch. The fries crowded the basket, flopping over the side and laying over the burger bun. Stiles gave his thanks to the bartender and tucked in, taking huge bites from the burger but making sure to keep the juices from running down his shirt. Alcoholic, maybe; sloppy, never. On his seventh scotch, he finished the burger and was absently picking at the fries when the bartender returned. The Alphas had left, and there were only three men huddled at a table with an unfinished pizza between them. Stiles decided they weren't a threat, but this persistent bartender was definitely going to make the list if he didn't go away.

“Time's up,” he said, rubbing the back of his hand against his black eye absently. “What kind of rough day is it?”

Stiles eyed the man, idly dipping a fry in burger juice. “A rough one,” he answered.

“Come on now. You're on your seventh scotch and you still wont tell me what drove you out to drink like this? Is it a woman? I know all about woman troubles, trust me.”

He did look like the kind of man to have problems with women. Stiles wondered if the shiner was from an angry girlfriend, but instead put the fry in his mouth and chewed deliberately.

“How about this, then? The basket is on me, if you just tell me what kind of shit's got you down.”

Stiles considered the offer, then picked up another fry. “An ex came by yesterday and tried starting up our relationship again,” he answered half-truthfully. Actually, if he were simplifying things, that would be exactly what happened, only with two exes and a stolen jeep. He kept the jeep information to himself, angry at his ex-friends but not angry enough to put them in physical danger.

“I told you, I know woman troubles,” the man said, nodding sagely. “What happened?”

“I'm not sure,” Stiles answered, dropping the fry to take a sip of his scotch.

“Drinking it over?” The man chuckled. Stiles smiled wryly.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Here's some advice, okay? Don't think about how great things were. Focus on the bad and remember what the wise say; _People never change_.”

Stiles brooded on that for a long while, thinking of the times he had been left behind while the pack went about their wolfy business, the time _specifically_ that Scott had made out with Lydia Martin after finding out Stiles liked her. For a long time, Stiles thought only of the bad that had happened. It took him until the bottom of the glass to realize that people never _do_ change, at least not fundamentally, and at the bottom of himself he was still that awkward teenager with a sickening sense of loyalty. It didn't please him in the least to realize it. He told the bartender so, avidly, but kept all personal information to himself. Drunk Stiles still had common sense, despite having little to no motor skills. Somewhere along the line, he heard the bartender's name, but it all mushed into a blur in his head and he couldn't remember it for the life of him. With his newly found wisdom, he paid his tab, minus the basket, took a final piss, and left the bar.

Two blocks from the apartment, Stiles noticed a car tailing him. As soon as he turned to look at it, it picked up speed, passed him, and vanished around a corner. Only mildly unsettled, he continued on to the building. Walking, it turned out, was much easier drunk than going up stairs drunk. He ended up pulling himself hand over hand on the railing, dragging his feet up the three flights of stairs until he reached Derek's door. With much difficulty, he jabbed the key at the lock half a dozen times, finally shoving it in and twisting. He tumbled through the door with no grace, closed it behind him with an earth-rending _slam_ , and managed to get to the couch before passing out. His shoes were still on, the key slipping from his fingers as he snored face-down in the pillows.

 

 

 

He dreamed of the Alphas in the beginning, he dreamed of a Beacon Hills before his dad died, he dreamed of Lydia Martin with her red-gold curls. He dreamed in circles and loops that intersected at varying points of thought, each meeting giving way for more. Most things ran through as one big lump of dream, until the lingering bit. The bit that he'd remember long after he had woken up. The scene was in four different places. The freeway, the burnt-out shell of the Hale House, the Alpha's warehouse hideout, and the Stilinski Family Home itself. His father was tied to a chair in all of these places at once, beaten and bloodied. His jeep was a smoldering wreck burning in the distance of each place. Derek and Peter and Scott were surrounded by the enemy every way he turned to see. All the locations, all the events, blurred as one seamless dream sequence. Stiles' shoulder was dislocated, he could feel the pain even through the haze of dream and time. Riley, the Alpha that had started all of this, was dead in all the places at once, his body broken and twisted with a dead laugh on his lips. In the dream, Stiles faced what he thought was the new Alpha of the Alphas, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a hawk-like nose. In his mind, the part of him not sleeping, he knew this was just another face of the enemy. He tried to wake himself up, to spare himself the sight, the memory. His dislocated shoulder throbbed madly, his father shouted questions and threats to his captors. It all ended in a sickening crunch and Stiles screamed.

 

 

 

Derek Hale was staring at him when he opened his eyes. If he had been more inclined, he might have shouted and jumped and sat up in mind-numbingly quick procession. Fighting off a hangover the size of a small pony and overcoming a memory that left a bad taste in his mouth, he just closed his eyes again as if the image were just part of his dream. Both dream images didn't go away, and Derek exhaled loudly and irritably. Stiles opened his eyes again, noting that the lights were _off_ and there was a blanket over his shoulders. Stiles wiggled his toes to find that his shoes had even been taken off, and he hadn't woken up to it. Derek glared at him in that intimidating Alpha way, and Stiles blinked owlishly a few times.

“What?” he asked.

“You went out last night.”

Stiles searched for a clock, or some way to tell the time, but he didn't find it. Nibbling on the inside of his lip, he frowned. “Maybe.”

Derek seemed to hesitate, as if not sure he should say anything else. Then he did. “You were... whimpering.”

“I.... _what_?” Stiles asked defensively.

“In your sleep. You screamed, too. I thought you would wake up the whole building.”

Stiles did sit up then, pushed himself against the back of the couch with his knees to his chest and the blanket around his shoulders. He didn't immediately say anything, just stared at Derek cautiously. Many things ran through his mind, all screaming to be said, but he didn't _want_ to say them. He didn't want to talk to Derek, he didn't want to open up, he didn't want to _heal_ because... because... He struggled to find the reason, to explain why he wanted them to leave him alone. It wasn't at the tip of his tongue, and it wasn't at the back of his mind. It was hiding, somewhere, and he couldn't figure out what it was. It frustrated him, and he clenched his fists around the fabric of the blanket.

Derek got to his feet and left without a word. He returned with a towel, holding out his free hand to Stiles. Unsure of what, exactly, was happening Stiles reached out hesitantly. Derek gripped his hand, tugged him from the couch, and led him to the bathroom, pulling harder when he tried to protest. They entered the bathroom, Stiles reluctant and tugged mostly against his will.

“Sit,” Derek commanded, pointing to the counter and releasing his grip on Stiles.

Still completely unsure of what was happening, Stiles lifted himself up to the counter, his feet hanging beside the cabinet doors. He and Derek were similar heights when standing, and sitting on the counter made Stiles several inches taller. Derek draped the towel around his shoulders loosely, and Stiles tugged the corners so it was tight over his shoulders, his nerves going haywire. He scrunched himself down out of some self-conscience instinct, watching as Derek opened the tiny bathroom closet and tugged out a black bag.

Derek pulled out an ancient-looking clippers and untangled the cord with a few brutal shakes. He plugged it into the socket wordlessly, selected the proper blade, and clipped it into the holder. Derek seemed to hesitate as he moved his hip to rest against Stiles' knees, arm outstretched to reach for the unruly mop of hair on his head. Unsure silence followed for what seemed like five minutes but in reality was perhaps thirty seconds.

Stiles inclined his head fractionally.

Derek turned the clippers on, putting cold steel teeth to Stiles' skull. The small motor buzzed and the lengthy hair fell away in a short strip. Derek grew irritated with the angle and tried to flip the cord around to the right spot. It draped around his arm three times before he huffed angrily and gave up. He sidestepped and pushed himself between Stiles' legs in a graceful motion, one hand reaching up to push Stiles' head to the side so he could continue clipping along his neck. Warm steel passed over the same spots several times, cleaning up stray strands that stuck up like sore thumbs. He hummed his satisfaction or discontent to himself as he worked without regard to the young adult receiving his amateur haircut. Stiles was still beneath his hand, shifting however Derek indicated without hesitation. When the initial buzz had been achieved, he dropped the hot steel blade from the clippers, selected the trimming blade, and shifted between Stiles' legs again. His hand trailed along Stiles' newly buzzed hair, carefully, as if testing Stiles' reaction, before pushing his head down and running the close-cutting blade along the natural outline of hair.

When he was satisfied that Stiles' hair was how it should look, or at least how he wanted it to look, Derek turned the clippers off and set them to the side. He passed his hand over Stiles' hair several different directions, hummed contentedly to himself, and crossed his arms. He did not step back from his incredibly invasive position between Stiles' legs, as if he hadn't even noticed it.

Stiles tentatively reached a hand to touch his hair, then grew bolder and both hands rubbed at the newly rediscovered buzz. His eyes met Derek's, a hesitation in the gaze. His hands fell from his hair to the counter, palms flat against the white porcelain.

“Feels nice,” he said. What he didn't say was _thanks_ because he didn't have it in him.

“Good. It was starting to freak me out,” Derek answered gruffly as he stepped away. He gathered the clippers and the blades, knocking bits of Stiles' hair out of them in the wastebin and tucking everything back into the black bag.

Stiles found himself absently kicking the cabinets with his feet and he noticed in slight dismay that his head was getting cold. “Why do you have a clippers? You don't actually buzz your hair, do you?”

Derek put the bag into the closet. “Sometimes.”

Stiles tried imagining Derek with a buzz, instead imagining Derek between his legs with a buzz, and banished the entire thought to a place he could examine more thoroughly later, in privacy. Or maybe not at all, he hadn't quite decided yet. With a little hop, he got off the counter and slipped around Derek to the freedom of the hallway. He stood there, awkwardly, as if their conversation weren't really over and Derek had more to say despite his quiet, cold demeanor. Stiles was glad to be out of the bathroom, in his own space bubble.

Naturally, Derek shattered that as soon as Stiles noticed. The alpha stalked into the hallway, stopped just before bumping into Stiles, and stared him down with a scowl as if he had no business being there.

“Not used to company?” Stiles asked, though it was more of a statement. He backed himself against the wall, possibly to give Derek more room and possibly to save Derek the trouble of pushing him against it.

“Not particularly,” Derek said.

A long pause filled the hall. Derek's glare only intensified as Stiles pressed himself flatter against the wall. A long pause filled the space between them and Stiles licked his lips nervously. “Can you not tell Scott where I was tonight?” he asked.

The silence that followed was at once promising and utterly defeating. Derek's cold eyes looked him up and down with a twitch at the corner of his lips that most _definitely_ did not want to be a grin. Instead of answering, he turned away and walked down the hall to the bedroom. “I'm going to bed,” he said.

Stiles did not ask him again.


	5. Chapter 5

Derek did not, blessedly, tell Scott. Stiles discovered that nugget of information when Scott showed up at noon, holding the keys to the Jeep and grinning like the Mad Hatter at Stiles' new buzz. It took Stiles the entirety of the fifteen minute drive to realize _why_ Derek had declined telling Scott. By the time the Jeep pulled into the Arby's parking lot, Stiles was suffocating beneath the crushing weight of guilt. Scott was pattering on about one thing or another, eagerly filling Stiles in on all that he had missed in the last two years. He caught bits and pieces about new pack members, new problems, even New York. He did listen to the part where Derek hunted down the pack Laura had been making for herself on the East Coast, and was surprised to find out that Laura's pack was now part of Derek's pack by some weird werewolf proxy. He caught himself caring and cataloging this information despite his determination to stay out of it, and actively forced himself to ignore the tales.

Scott turned off the Jeep, pocketed the keys, and shifted in his seat. “I'll be out in a minute. Don't go anywhere, okay?”

Stiles perked an eyebrow, but didn't comment on all the amazing places he could go while Scott was away getting curly fries and burgers. He watched Scott trot into the Arby's – because he _did_ trot, happily, like a small pony – and immediately started rummaging through the Jeep when Scott was through the doors. The glovebox held the usual things; the title still in Stiles' name, napkins, pens, a few odds and ends that Scott didn't know what to do with, but nothing of interest. Stiles ran his hand under the overhang of the dashboard, probing fingers into nooks and crannies that had, once, held various herbs and powders given to him by Deaton to fight back the Alphas. Every hiding spot was cleaned out, and he worried at his lower lip. Even the stash beneath the emergency brake, hidden in the folds of worn leather, was missing. His hands began to shake as he twisted around in his seat, kneeling and pulling at the backseat. It lifted up with ease and beneath it were weapons. They weren't his weapons, they were the cold hard steel of firearms. _Argent weapons_. He slammed the seat down, turned around, and sat heavily, face pale and jaw set. No sooner had he faced forward than Scott was trotting back out of the Arby's, two bags in his left hand and keys jingling in his right.

He hopped in with a smile across his face and set the bag in Stiles' lap. It was decorated with colorful pictures. “I didn't know if you were still on your healthy food thing,” he explained.

Stiles lifted his eyebrow, a judging look on his face as he pulled out the contents of the bag. A small dish of macaroni and cheese, a tiny bottle of milk, and the world's smallest container of curly fries. If his eyebrows could get any higher, they would have immigrated to his hairline.

Scott cleared his throat, the smile slipping from his face as if he realized what he had said and had put it together that Stiles' healthy kick was for the benefit of his father. Scott put the jeep into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. “Uh, we're gonna drive up to the woods and eat out there,” he explained.

“What about the Alphas?” Stiles asked.

“Deaton gave us some things to... um... keep us under the radar. I don't remember what it was, but it works so far.”

Stiles nodded, sucking down a curly fry as Scott drove off the main road onto the dirt road to the preserve. He didn't want to be part of this ludicrous life anymore than he wanted to be staying at Derek's apartment. Something nagged at the back of his mind, a prying little subconscious that must have been what was left of the old Stiles Stilinski. The old Stiles Stilinski craved attention and thrived on the constant buzz of chatter. The new Stiles Stilinski could do without the whole deal of breathing altogether.

Scott parked the jeep so they were facing out over the town on one of the bluffs. It wasn't much of a sight, clouded over with the faint haze of rainy fog. Lights glowed in halos through the gray of the afternoon. Stiles felt much like the weather. Chilly, miserable, and tired. Scott didn't seem affected by the dreary day, to judge by the bounce in his step and the pep in his talk. Once parked, Scott pulled out his food. The pair sat in the jeep quietly, Stiles picking at his kids meal and Scott munching through his burger. It was only as Stiles was beginning to appreciate the silence and actually make himself comfortable that Scott set his food to the side, took a long and deliberate sip of his soda, and cleared his throat.

“So... what happened?” Scott asked.

It took him a moment to answer, startled out of his sullen silence. “When?” Stiles asked.

“When we left.”

Stiles didn't answer and let his fork slip into the container of macaroni and cheese. He looked at Scott for a moment, judging the expectant and trusting face, before exhaling slowly and looking back out over Beacon Hills.

Scott, for once, took the hint.

Stiles didn't touch his food after that. Stiles didn't do much after that. He stared out over the town, stuck in his own internal struggle for whatever kind of normalcy he could find. He listened to Scott as he finished his food, slurping the last bits of soda from between melting cubes of ice. Stiles didn't speak as he pulled his feet from his shoes and tucked his knees beneath his chin, curling into himself. When Scott spoke, Stiles didn't turn to listen.

“The Alphas had Lydia and Allison,” Scott said quietly. “We didn't... we didn't tell you. Derek didn't want to put you in more danger... but... well...” Scott let the thought trail off, not bothering to catch it and repair the fragments. He squished the empty paper bag between his palms nervously. “Derek called the Alphas out and set up an exchange. One of theirs for both of ours. He said humans aren't worth as much... And they didn't know Lydia was _immune_...” He seemed to burn out, his voice growing weak. “The Alphas gave us Allison first. They _kept_ Lydia, Jackson was furious, they didn't want to let her go, they said they changed their minds. We were ready to fight them... Then an old guy stepped forward and handed Lydia off to us like it was nothing, like it was all a big mistake.”

Stiles felt his heart stuttering and forced himself to drown Scott's words out.

“Then he gave us your father's body.”

Stiles' fingers curled into fists, nails cutting into his palms. His teeth clenched so tight he thought he might break his jaw.

“The old man said he killed you, and if we stayed, he would kill everyone close to us,” Scott said, a low whine to his strained voice. A pained expression contorted his face as if remembering something too hard to say. “Derek hit them first, before we could stop him. I don't know how we got out alive. They let us go. They must have.”

Stiles flung open the door and jumped out of the jeep. He had barely stumbled to the trees before he crashed to his knees and threw up. Scott tried to touch his shoulder, but he wrenched away with a violent jerk. He struggled to his feet, ran the back of his hand over his mouth, and started walking. Scott called after him and followed him, but he didn't hear a single word. It all went over his head, floating in a dark oblivion. Branches tugged at his clothes, scratched his skin, slapped his arms. Rocks and twigs dug sharply into his stockings. Scott shouted more urgently from somewhere behind him. Stiles shook his head as if to clear it and turned around.

Scott stood twenty feet away, hands clenched into fists, his entire body trembling. “Stiles!”

Stiles stared back at him, silent.

“Come back!” he called.

Stiles stood still.

“Please come back.”

His eyes trailed down to Scott's feet, to the barely perceptible line of soot running along the ground. To Stiles' eyes, it sparked in the gray afternoon like gunpowder. He stepped forward, his eyes moving along the line. Then he looked up to Scott.

“No,” he said.

Scott looked horrified. “Stiles! Please!”

Stiles' face was expressionless as he looked at Scott. “No. No more _Stiles Please_ and _Stiles I'm Sorry_. I don't care anymore. I put that behind me and you should too. Leave Beacon Hills to the Alphas.”

Scott stared in disbelief. His eyes went down to the line of soot, then back to Stiles. “That isn't Mountain Ash,” he said, his voice lowering into a growl and his features contorting. “You're not safe from me stepping over this and forcing you back into the jeep.”

Stiles seemed unimpressed. “It may not be Mountain Ash, but it is what is keeping the Alphas from finding you,” he said. “I don't think you'll risk it.”

Scott looked terrifyingly torn between crossing the line and staying safe. His mouth twitched and his lips pulled back to show his fangs, but he couldn't work any words.

Stiles left him there, and walked back into Beacon Hills, barefoot and alone.

 

 

 

There was a scotch waiting at the corner seat when he left the bathroom of The Stray Dog. Stiles slid into his seat, took up the glass, and sipped from it. The bartender caught his eye across the room and nodded to him in greeting but was too busy to walk over. It was nearly noon and Stiles was not planning on leaving until close. After that, he would figure out what he could do. It was hard to hide from a werewolf but not impossible. A few times on his walk into town he had thought about contacting Deaton, but the less that man knew the better off everyone was. Stiles didn't trust him as far as he could throw him, which all things considered wasn't even several inches. Instead, Stiles took the long way around Beacon Hills and kept an eye out for any ash on the ground. He kept expecting Scott or Derek to jump out at him and throw a burlap sack over his head, but it never happened.

The advantage to walking the long way was that now Stiles had a pretty good idea of the territory Scott and Derek could walk without attracting Alpha attention. It was less expansive than Stiles would have imagined and explained Derek's work choice and even the route Scott had driven to get to the preserve. Though he had a good idea, he still didn't know what the ash was made of and that irritated him somewhere in the back of his mind.

He hadn't realized how intent he was until a glass thumped down beside his on the bar. He looked up at the bartender. The man's black eye was fading but a new scratch along his cheek made Stiles really want to ask about his own problems.

“Women troubles bothering you again?” the man asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered.

The bartender inclined his head in agreement. “Guess its not your week.”

“Its not my life.”

“Come on now, its not that bad,” the man said, taking the empty glass and filling it. “Everyone has down times, you just gotta know how to handle them.”

Stiles eyed the man, trying to judge his character while he was sober. Drunk Stiles liked the man very much, but Sober Stiles was a cautious individual.

“Nice haircut,” the man said with a grin as he returned the glass. “Almost didn't recognize you, looking so proper.”

Stiles couldn't stop the rueful laugh as he looked down at his baggy sweatpants and large shirt. “If you say so.”

“Looks nice, is what I'm saying.”

Stiles took the glass, holding it on the bar as he looked up at the man. “How'd you get the shiner?”

The man looked surprised as he touched his black eye gently. “Oh, this,” he said somewhat dryly. “Some friends is all.”

“Some friends you have,” Stiles said with a grunt. He took a drink of the scotch.

“Some ex-girlfriend you have,” the man replied.

“She's a bitch, yeah.”

The bartender smiled and patted the bar. “Let me know if you need anything else. The other customers might think I'm showing favoritism if I chat with you all night.”

“How do you know I'm staying all night?” Stiles asked. “Maybe I'm going home in a few minutes.”

“You're not wearing any shoes,” the bartender answered.

Stiles looked down. He had forgotten the shoes part. “Right.”

The bartender left him alone with his scotch and Stiles watched him as he worked. He wasn't a terrible person, Stiles finally decided. Of course, he wasn't someone Stiles wanted to become best friends with and tell all his problems to, either. Especially not his wolf problems because he was trying to get rid of them. _At least I know what I'm doing now,_ he thought bitterly.

The door to the bar opened and Stiles turned his head to see who it was. The same two Alpha cops from the night before stepped in, grinning and laughing with each other. Stiles ducked down and busied himself with his drink so as not to attract their attention. They took their seat by a window and the bartender walked over in no rush at all. Stiles watched from the corner of his eye as they ordered and bantered. The bartender seemed completely at ease, and Stiles was relieved in assuming the bartender knew nothing about werewolves. If he did, the Alphas would have him trembling in fear. The bartender finally left the Alphas and returned to the bar.

Stiles got up to use the bathroom. Before he was through the door, one of the Alphas looked up at him but thankfully looked back to his partner to continue whatever conversation they were having. Without any outsiders to heckle Stiles wondered just how the Alpha pack was keeping the calm. Surely acting normal and fulfilling average parts of society weren't enough for the creatures who had so brutally ripped his life away. He pissed with bitter resentment and imagined quite gleefully that the urinal was in actuality an Alpha. It felt a little better to have the upper hand, for once.

He tucked himself back into his pants, zipped up, and stepped to the sink. The face staring back at him in the mirror was more familiar beneath the buzzed hair. Still hallow and pale and bruised around the eyes, but more familiar. Stiles sighed as he washed his hands. The paper towel was rough against his fingers and he tossed it in the trash half-used to shake his hands the air-dry way. As he left the bathroom, the Alpha who had looked up at him was coming in.

“Hey,” the man said. He was young, Derek's age or less, with sharp features and a hawk-like nose beneath bright blue eyes. There was an air of mischievous playfulness in his greeting but the smile on his lips never touched his eyes.

Stiles didn't speak, only nodded and grunted in reply as he fled the bathroom in what he hoped to be a dignified exit.

The Alpha sitting at the table arched an eyebrow and didn't seem to think so but went back to his food without much more thought.

Stiles was shaking when he sat down. The scotch was empty on the bar and he waved down the big bartender. When the man came over, he seemed genuinely concerned.

“What's the matter? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Stiles shrugged.

The bartender slid a glass of scotch across the glossy surface. “My mum always said alcohol chases away the spirits.”

“Did she?” Stiles asked, sounding both intrigued and disbelieving.

“Nah, just made it up. Alcohol does a world of good though. Drink up, that one's on me.”

Stiles wanted to ask what made the bartender so kind, but he didn't have time. The man was already walking down to a couple of men sitting at the opposite end. Stiles made a point to keep his eyes fixed on the television, barely flinching when the bathroom door banged open loudly and the Alpha stumbled out with a bizarre laugh. Stiles decided the man was feigning drunkenness. He knew werewolves couldn't become drunk. The fact that they were here had, previously, not given rise to questions. Now that he was watching the Alpha fake it, he had to wonder why they would bother being in a bar at all. The town was theirs and maybe they were just out for fun but Stiles didn't believe it.

Suddenly, or maybe several hours later, Stiles lost track, the bartender was back in front of him, wiping down the bar with an off-white rag.

“You need another?” he asked, motioning to the empty glass.

Stiles judged it with an indecisive stare before shaking his head. “Not yet.”

“Things are quieting down in here,” the bartender said. It was true. Half the patrons were gone and the only ones remaining were three men playing darts and the two Alphas. He filled a glass with scotch despite Stiles' protests and set it down in front of him. “Lets chat.”

“About what?” Stiles asked, suddenly on his guard as he stared at the scotch.

“Everything. This ex of yours, for starters. I only _assume_ its a woman, am I right?”

Stiles wrinkled his nose and his guard slipped a few notches. _Those_ kind of chats. He could handle _those_ kind of chats. “Yeah, its a woman.”

The bartender arched an eyebrow. “It? You can't hate her that much. Look, I wont judge you.”

“I'm not _gay_ ,” Stiles said firmly.

“Alright, alright. So this woman, you were together for a while?”

Stiles thought about it as he gnawed on his lip. “Four years,” he answered, then paused. He had known Derek through High School, but he had known Scott since they were in grade school. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Twelve years.”

“Four and twelve? That's a long time,” the bartender said with a chuckle. “I'll just assume you were high school sweethearts, how's that?”

“Pretty fucking accurate,” Stiles mumbled into his scotch.

“Did she leave for college after graduation? Mine left for Europe. Long distance never lasts, kid.” The bartender poured a glass of water from the tap, sipping at it as he looked around the bar for anyone who might need assistance. Finding none, he set the water on the glossy surface and pulled up a mangled stool to sit on.

Stiles snorted. “Yeah.”

“Abandonment is the worst.”

Stiles drank to that.

They were four drinks in and discussing late-night talk shows when Stiles felt the last reserves of his guard falling to pieces around him. The scotch in his hand was warm despite the ice cubes floating in it. The Alphas had left around drink number three, and as the clock rolled around to one in the morning, so too did the three men leave. Stiles sloshed scotch in his glass and tilted it back to pour the remainder into his open mouth. The bartender was wiping down the tables as they talked, and Stiles busied himself by collecting silverware, glasses, and coasters.

Stiles asked the man's name and forgot it again just as easily.

“Closing time,” the bartender announced as he dropped a dirty rag into the bucket. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow and winced as he touched the black eye.

Stiles huffed into the empty glass. “Go where?” he asked the melting ice.

“Go _home_ ,” the bartender answered.

Stiles hadn't thought he asked the question so loudly and was surprised when the bartender answered. He looked up. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah, go home, sleep on it. When you wake up in the morning you can decide what you want to do about the woman.”

Stiles knew what he wanted to do about the woman, so he said so. “I don't want anything to do with her anymore.”

“Make your mind up in the _morning_ ,” the bartender stressed, clapping his hands around Stiles' shoulders and steering him towards the door. “And remember, if you need anyone to talk to, I'm always right here.”

Stiles shook himself away from the bartender with a snort. “I know the way out, stop being so pushy,” he said.

As he stepped out into the brisk early morning air, the door behind him closed and the lock clicked into place. Stiles inhaled deeply, looked up the street towards Derek's apartment, and shook his head. There was a long moment of indecision as he looked from side to side, wondering if he should go back to Derek's and explain himself or go back to his own apartment. His feet moved before his brain, and he realized he was going back to Derek. He didn't know what he was going to say but he was fairly certain Derek wouldn't give him time to say it anyway. He turned at the corner of The Stray Dog.

The Alphas were waiting for him.


	6. Chapter 6

The hawk-nosed Alpha grinned at him and bared sharp fangs. His eyes flashed red in the dark of the street. Stiles felt the pit of his stomach drop to the lowest layers of hell and his heart hammered frantically in his chest. The other Alpha was short and lean and looked considerably more dangerous than his companion. For a wild moment, Stiles wanted to laugh at the image of the tall and the short standing next to each other but he held it in.

“Stilinski,” the hawk-nosed Alpha said in greeting.

Stiles swallowed his struggling fear. “Stranger who I've never met before,” he answered in a voice several octaves too high for the nonchalant tone he wanted.

“We've met,” the hawk-nosed Alpha said as his eyes narrowed. “You killed Riley.”

“I've never met a Riley in my life. I'm sorry she's dead,” Stiles said, his voice trembling.

“Don't play stupid with us,” the Alpha snorted. He walked forward slowly and deliberately, like a lion stalking a baby gazelle. _Like a wolf stalking a fawn._

Stiles took an involuntary step back. The Alpha leaped forward with a snarl and grabbed him by the back of the neck, _hard_. Nails dug deeply into Stiles' skin and he winced under the pressure. The hawk-nosed Alpha shook him like a dirty rag and leaned close.

“Riley was my _brother_ , you insolent little shit,” he snarled in Stiles' ear.

The short Alpha cleared his throat, hands behind his back patiently.

The hawk-nosed Alpha took a deep, trembling breath and released Stiles, but not before giving the back of his neck a painful squeeze.

“What my associate means to say is _you're on the shit list_ ,” the short Alpha said, never moving from his spot. “You fell off our radar for the last two days. Where have you been? You didn't leave Beacon Hills, did you?” The man's voice was prying.

Stiles balked and his wide frightened eyes darted between the Alphas.

“Oh, yeah, we knew you were alive,” the hawk-nosed Alpha said. “We were hoping you would be bait for the Hales to come back but, well, that never _happened_ , did it?”

Stiles felt his heart stammer and his stomach churned violently. _They don't know?_

The short Alpha narrowed his eyes. “Did it?” he asked pointedly.

“Wouldn't you know something like that?” Stiles snapped with more bravado than he felt.

The Alphas seemed to contemplate this before coming to a mutual agreement. The short Alpha removed one hand from behind his back to scratch his nose, then returned it.

“We would,” he answered. “But it seems they've abandoned you.”

 _Or you told them I was dead_ , Stiles thought resentfully.

The hawk-nosed Alpha didn't seem to understand the role of good-cop, bad-cop. He rolled his shoulders fluidly and cleared his throat. “I don't think they've abandoned him completely,” he said in a softer voice than he had been using. “Isn't that right, Stilinski? There's a reason you were missing for two days, isn't there?”

Stiles didn't take the bait. He licked his lips nervously and his eyes flitted between the Alphas and to any path of freedom he could think of. His choices were depressingly limited.

“Don't try to run off,” the short Alpha warned.

“We're faster than you anyway,” the hawk-nosed Alpha said.

The short Alpha shifted his hands to crack his knuckles. “Well?” he asked with his eyes on his companion. “We aren't just here for a friendly chat.”

The hawk-nosed Alpha grinned wide, baring his fangs as his eyes glinted red. He chuckled darkly.

“If Derek Hale and his pack _are_ back,” the short Alpha said, eying Stiles. “They'll get the message.”

Stiles grit his teeth as the blow caught him under the eye. Lights flashed in his vision and he stumbled back. He caught himself, blinked away the lights and shook his head. Blood filled his mouth and he spit, spraying the pavement with red-tinged spittle.

The hawk-nosed Alpha shook his hand out, reddened knuckles beginning to fade back to flesh-tone. “Look, 's a good message,” he said with a toothy grin.

The short Alpha sighed heavily. “A black eye isn't a _message_ ,” he said firmly. “But I suppose it is better than putting him back in the hospital. They'll _never_ find him then.”

Stiles realized then that the Alphas were _scared._ Not of him, judging by the force of the punch, but of something or someone. They swaggered with all the strength and self-confidence Stiles remembered but they seemed to be holding back. Their eyes shifted when they thought Stiles wasn't looking. Something clicked.

“You're setting them up,” Stiles spoke suddenly. A cold anger was filling the pit of his stomach. These were the assholes who had ruined his _life._ Just the thought was enough to anger him but the knowledge that ruining his life and killing his father hadn't been _enough_ for them was setting his blood to a rolling boil.

Both Alphas turned their gaze to him with equally interested looks. The short Alpha was the one who answered him. “Is it so obvious?” he asked mockingly.

“You're not going to provoke them,” Stiles said, not knowing where his mouth was going. His mind raced to catch up but his lips were forming words before his brain could filter them. “They left me here, or do you not get that? They left and went god-knows-where and they _never came back for me_. Do you _not_ understand that? Derek Hale and Scott McCall _fucking left me here_. You're not going to get a response out of the Hale pack because I'm not _part of it anymore_.”

The hawk-nosed Alpha glanced sideways at his companion with a tilt of his head. They shared a moment of silent conversation before the hawk-nosed Alpha looked to Stiles. “You are foolish, Stilinski. You were never part of the Hale pack. You were expendable. You know that.”

The short Alpha nodded agreement. The hawk-nosed Alpha continued, his tone biting and harsh.

“In fact, the only reason Derek has to come back at all is to shut you up. When he sees this-” he crunched a hard fist into the side of Stiles' face “-he's going to know we can get anything out of you. Any information we want.”

Stiles staggered back from the blow but didn't give them the satisfaction of a whimper. He didn't touch the forming bruises. He stared defiantly at the Alpha. “Like what? I don't know where any of them are. Until today, I thought they were all dead like me.”

“You're not dead,” the hawk-nosed Alpha said darkly. “Not yet. But believe me, you'll beg for death before I'm done with you.”

Stiles opened his mouth to snark back out of instinct. He never got a word out.

 

 

 

 

He didn't go back to Derek's apartment that night. He didn't go back to Derek's apartment the next night, or the night after that. He spent each night and each day in his own rundown apartment. He huddled in threadbare blankets that made up his bed on a moth-eaten sofa in the studio apartment. The bathroom was barely a closet with a toilet, a sink, and a cramped standup shower. The kitchen was a fridge, stove, and wash-basin sink with no counter. For two days, he stayed in his apartment, the line of mountain ash at his door unbroken and the lines along his windows intact. After two days, the swelling on his face had gone down, though the bruises had become angry blossoming purple-green across his left eye and under his right.

The Alphas had made it very clear that they didn't like when he went places they couldn't track him. They were waiting for him to mess up and by going to The Stray Dog, he had messed up. Or more accurately, by staying with Derek he had messed up. The Alphas really _didn't_ know Derek Hale was back. What they _did_ know was that, for just under forty-eight hours, Stiles had been nowhere to be found and the Alphas, at least the two who had been tracking him, had grown incredibly irritated with that fact. They didn't do much, as far as what they were _capable_ of went. They had held back. He didn't have any broken bones or punctured lungs. What he did have were sore and angry bruises across the most of his upper body.

After the hawk-nosed Alpha administered the 'lesson,' they had left him. The short Alpha even picked him up, dusted him off, and told him amicably to _“go home, Stilinski, we'll call you when we need you.”_

The first day he polished off a bottle of tequila and went to sleep vaguely hoping he wouldn't wake up. He did, violently, and spent two hours hanging over the yellowed toilet with a flickering fluorescent light stabbing through his eyes into his brain. By the end of the first day he had run out of what little belief he had left. After two years of blissful ignorance he now had solid evidence that the Alphas _knew_ he hadn't died. Worse, they were _stalking_ him like crazily obsessed fans. The kind of fans that would kill their favorite celebrity if they ever got their hands on them. Exactly the kind of fan that Stiles never wanted.

The second day there was a knock at his door as he was cautiously sipping a two-year old bottle of rum. He didn't answer it and refused to go to it until that night, when he was sufficiently drunk enough to think it was a good idea. He held a knife in one hand as he yanked the door open. Sitting on his doorstep was a cylindrical package, roughly thirty inches long and as large around as a coffee canister. He looked down the hall both ways, eyed the package, and dragged it inside to sit against his wall. After that he doubled the Mountain Ash around the windows and door.

By the third day he was getting a tinge of cabin fever. He mixed rum and whiskey, decided never to do that again, and began making other chemistry experiments with his alcohol stash. He threw up in the afternoon and ate a piece of stale bread to calm his stomach. It didn't work and he laid down on the sofa to sleep. Close to midnight there was a heavy thud against his door and he could hear loud breathing. The breathing sounded both angry and winded, so he stayed on the sofa until the thud came again as if he could hide from whoever was standing outside his studio. The front door shook with the force of a third hit. Stiles tiptoed to the door, touching the wood carefully to steady himself as he looked through the peephole.

Derek Hale glared back at him.

Stiles felt his heart slamming in his chest. He had checked twice before entering his apartment and hadn't seen any of the mysterious ash that signified the safe places for the Hale pack to walk. Had Derek broken his own rules and stepped across the line for Stiles? And more importantly, if he had, was he going to throttle the young adult for the trouble? Stiles suddenly became aware of his hands shaking against the door and of Derek's eyes watching the place where his hands _were_. Derek could _hear him – of course he could fucking hear him_. Stiles couldn't hear Derek but he could read lips and what Derek said at that moment was _“Stiles, open the door.”_

Trembling more than he had ever imagined he could tremble, Stiles opened the door. As he did the wind slipped beneath the crack and disrupted the Mountain Ash line. Derek's hand was clutched in the neck of his shirt before he could react. His back slammed into the apartment wall and the door closed with such a loud crash he thought half the town would be awake. Derek was yelling at him, or trying to, through the fangs and the lupine growls and the utter rage in his red eyes. He was yelling and snarling and shaking and both of his hands pressed Stiles' shoulders against the wall, making escape impossible. Their lips were _touching_ , Derek was so close, and he was so engrossed in his tirade Stiles wasn't sure he was even _aware_ of it. Stiles could smell – no _taste_ , he could fucking _taste_ – the sour of alcohol from Derek's lips and beneath that, on his breath, he could taste the faint afterimage of mint toothpaste. He wondered how much and for how long Derek had needed to drink to feel anything at all. Slowly Derek's snarls shifted into more articulate words and his chest heaved and trembled from the exertion. He was out of breath, panting for air, but he was still speaking.

Stiles had never heard Derek utter so many multi-sylable words in his life.

Then they stopped.

Derek's fingers dug into Stiles' shoulders, pressing him hard against the wall. His eyes flashed gray, then red, then gray again as he came back to himself. Suddenly aware of their intimately close proximity, Derek jerked back as if he had been burned.

Stiles shivered, still pinned to the wall.

“I-”

“The-”

They stopped, both trying to speak at once.

“The Alphas know you're here,” Stiles blurted the half-truth quickly. The alcohol was still pumping through his veins even if the drunken stupor had worn off and he wanted to blame his sudden camaraderie on it.

Derek's eyes flashed murderous red and shifted back to stormy gray. His hand lifted stiffly from Stiles' shoulder and touched impossibly gently on the bruise beneath Stiles' right eye. “They did this.”

It wasn't a question. It didn't have to be.

“It's a lesson to you,” Stiles said. His lips blurted the first thing they thought of. “They know you're here and this was all a _trap_.”

“It took me three days to convince Deaton to put the willow ash around your apartment,” Derek growled and put his hand back against Stiles' shoulder. He was shaking, though in anger or exertion Stiles couldn't tell. “They don't know I'm here. Deaton would have told me.”

“You can't trust him,” Stiles insisted and his voice grew louder in his sudden irrational panic. “You have to leave. They'll know you're here, they set this up to push you over the edge. Leave Beacon Hills and _don't come back_. If you _ever_ listen to me, just _once_ in your stupid life, _leave Beacon Hills alone._ ”

Derek didn't move. His eyes shifted to the floor and narrowed. “What's that?”

Stiles looked down at the brown wrapped package. “I... don't know,” he admitted stupidly.

“Open it.” It was a command. Derek stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest.

Stiles considered resisting and getting Derek out of his apartment somehow but scrapped the idea. He knelt to open the package. The brown paper tore away easily and hiding beneath it was the handle of a thick wooden Louisville slugger. Stiles froze.

Derek made a strange noise. Then, “Is that...”

Stiles couldn't answer. His breath hitched in his chest and it felt like he was going to suffocate. Nails studded the end of the bat. Dried blood caked to the wood and the rusted nails. Once upon a time when Beacon Hills was still the Hale Pack territory, the bat had been coated in Wolfsbane and used to protect Stiles Stilinski from harm. Then that time ended and he hadn't seen the thing since the Alphas killed his dad. Seeing it now sent a wave of dread and fear through him that he hadn't felt in two years. Bile rose to the back of his throat and he swallowed it down. His breath quickened and his heart stuttered to a staccato beat.

Derek's nostrils flared and he grit his teeth, _hard_. “Who gave that to you?”

“Delivery, yesterday,” Stiles answered shakily, getting to his feet. He tore his eyes from the bat and looked at Derek but didn't speak. There was a tremor in his entire body and his lungs were screaming for air. He wondered suddenly if he would have another panic attack. The thought of Derek seeing it was enough of a slap in the face that he inhaled so sharp and deep his lungs hurt.

“We aren't leaving,” Derek said. He ignored the pleading behind Stiles' amber eyes. “We have too much invested in this to turn away now.”

Stiles didn't have the energy to yell. It was taking all his energy to concentrate on breathing. “Please go, Derek.”

Derek's eyes narrowed. “I'll consider it.”

“Promise me.” Stiles stared at him.

Derek rolled his eyes. “I'll bring it up to the rest of the pack. I can't promise anything.”

Stiles had imagined as much. Then, hesitating only momentarily, he held his hand out. Derek took it awkwardly and they shook on the promise. Stiles looked into Derek's eyes for longer than necessary, trying to judge if there was any hope in the promise. When the space between them had filled with all the awkward tension it possibly could, Derek tugged Stiles' hand in one swift motion and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“ _Fuck_ I thought you were dead,” he breathed almost too quietly against Stiles' neck. “Dead _again_. Christ.”

Stiles struggled only for a second before letting himself settle into the warmth of Derek's arms, more out of not having any other choice than actually enjoying himself. After a moment, it felt insanely _natural_ and it unsettled him. Stiles tired not to think about the bat or the last time he had seen it but the memories came up from the darkness like so many clawing hands. He couldn't smell the blood, not like Derek could, but he didn't have to. He knew exactly where the blood had come from and the knowledge that the Alphas had kept it _safe_ these last two years had been more than enough to give him resolve, for the moment. He could put aside his anger and resentment at the Hale pack tonight. His stomach churned suddenly and he pulled away with a rushed excuse. He barely made it to the bathroom to puke into the toilet.

When he came out, Derek was waiting in the living room.

“I want to see the pack,” Stiles said firmly. He was noncommittal at best but at least he was going to judge for himself if Derek Hale and his pack of rejects were enough to take down the assholes who murdered Sheriff Stilinski.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be fooled! There is still a long road to trust recovery on Stiles' part. For now, just consider it as choosing the lesser of two evils when he's stuck between a fiery inferno and a boiling pit of lava. Also, we're going to be seeing the Pack soon. Finally. The only bad thing about writing a story to be a single POV is not being able to tell you what's going on with everyone else. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has left comments, Kudos, and bookmarked this story! You guys all make my day, seriously. I wouldn't be writing this without you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few quick notes: This chapter is long. I am not entire sure what kind of car Lydia drives, but I like to think it is a Jaguar because I always think of the song by Xuk. The minor inconsistencies in the story are due to a singular point of view but if you notice major ones, please point them out to me. As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing because without you, I wouldn't be writing this at all.

Derek drove in silence. He took a winding route down lonely back roads and, on several occasions, alleys. Stiles was likewise silent and brooding as he stared out the window. Under the dark sky he felt less like being set up. Maybe he should have felt more vulnerable but somehow he didn't. There were too many things for him to be thinking about. Out of pure impulse he had demanded to see the rest of Derek's new pack. Now he wasn't so sure. The Camero cruised around Derek's block and dumped them out on a back street that Stiles had never paid much attention to. They followed it for a way before Derek turned onto a main street flooded with street lamps. Derek pulled the Camero against the side of the road and turned off the engine. It seemed immeasurably stupid to stop on a road so brightly lit considering the circumstances, but Stiles knew where they were. He could have laughed.

“The Argent house,” he said.

Derek grit his teeth. “It was the best we could do on short notice.”

Stiles peered out the window at the old house, a grim casualty of the skirmish. Half of it burnt to the ground when the Alphas learned that Riley was dead. The other half had barely been saved by Beacon Hills fire department. There had been no one inside but it had sent the message loud and clear. The message was so loud, in fact, that the Alphas hadn't demolished the Argent house after they ran the Hales out of town. They left it as a sadistic reminder to anyone who might stand up to them. Considering the Argent house's position in relation to the rest of Beacon Hills, Stiles was surprised they kept it standing so long against County regulations. The Alphas had friends in high places. Stiles studied the house for a moment longer.

“The whole pack is inside?”

“Most of them.”

Stiles took a deep breath and pushed open the door of the Camero. Derek met him on the brown lawn with an unreadable look on his face. They walked to the garage in perfect step. As Derek slipped inside between charred boards, Stiles hesitated outside. The smell of smoke was overwhelming. He was trying not to imagine how acrid it would be to Derek or even Scott. If he wanted to be objective about any of this, he would have to let go of that. With a deep breath, he stepped inside.

A gunmetal gray Jaguar sat in the burnt-out shell of the garage. _Lydia's car._ There were two empty spots beside it, each with fresh tire marks in the old dust. He wondered who was out, and where. Stiles moved around the Jaguar and followed Derek, who pushed open a perfectly new-looking door with one hand. Stiles had only been inside the Argent house three times in his entire life but he could tell anyone without looking what the first floor plan looked like. This was nothing like he remembered. The fire had gutted the house to a nearly unrecognizable blackened mess. Walls peeled away in curls of charcoal and two years of dust and ash coated the floor. Abandoned spider webs drifted in corners and arced across disused doorways, delicate and thin in the murky glow of streetlamps through smoked windows.

“You make your pack stay here?” Stiles asked.

“Downstairs, idiot,” Derek answered stiffly.

“Oh, because downstairs is the Ritz in comparison, right.”

Derek grunted in response, not at all amused.

Stiles followed Derek closely, a thin crawling sensation sliding up his spine and tickling the back of his neck. He didn't want to stay in the shell any longer than he had to and certainly not alone. They walked down the wooden stairs with careful footing. The stairs looked new, or at least untouched by the fire. As they descended, Stiles noticed most of the basement seemed to be in better shape than the garage and the part of the first floor he had seen. When they came to the last step Derek hit the wall three times with a heavy fist.

A door cracked open, then shoved wider to let Allison out. She looked healthy, if not a little dirty. With her long dark hair held back in a clip and smudges of ash across her face she still managed to brighten the room with her smile.

“Stiles,” she said as she stepped aside.

Lydia poked her head through the door, looking over the new company. Her eyes lingered on Stiles for a moment longer than they had ever really done. Briskly, as if she had planned the movement in her head a thousand times, she crossed the dusty floor. Her hands lit delicately on Stiles' shoulders and she placed a kiss on his cheek. Stiles blinked and opened his mouth to say something. Lydia stepped back and slapped him.

“That's for _dying_ ,” she said smartly.

Stiles rubbed his face and glared at her. “Sorry, next time I'll call you,” he said.

“There won't be a next time,” Lydia answered. She disappeared back into the space beyond the doorway and Stiles could hear her ordering people up and about.

Allison shrugged. “She missed you.”

“Apparently,” Stiles said angrily.

Three people filed out of the doorway. They were dirty and exhausted, with bags beneath their eyes and slumping postures. Derek motioned to Stiles, then to each of the people standing in front of them.

“Pack, this is Stiles. Stiles, this is Lacey, Oliver, and... Wraith.”

Stiles had his mouth open to ask _what kind of name is Wraith_ when he saw who Derek was pointing to. The man was _beautiful_. Tall and tan, with sinuous muscles and a lanky posture. The man had ridiculously red hair and a spattering of day-old stubble across his cheeks but his bright gray eyes were focused and calm, his attention on Derek as if Stiles wasn't even there. In that instant Stiles felt a jolt of jealousy and wanted to ask just who this _Wraith_ thought he was, muscling in on Stiles' territory. The man looked incredibly Irish and for some reason it only irrationally irritated Stiles more. Wraith pulled out a cigarette and tucked it between his sharp white teeth. When he opened his mouth, it was clear he was _not_ Irish.

“This is the Stiles we've heard of,” Wraith said in a posh English accent. He grinned wolfishly at Derek and _winked_.

Stiles couldn't speak.

Derek glared at Wraith with bared fangs. “Don't you have somewhere to be?” he asked.

Wraith blinked lazily and his eyes shifted from Derek to Stiles. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, whatever.”

Derek watched Wraith leave and turned to the other two. “They were part of Laura's pack,” he said to Stiles. “She left them behind on the east coast when she came back here.”

Lacey arched a slender eyebrow. Her skin was dark and her black hair clung tight to her head in ringlets. She leaned against the doorway with her hip and smiled at Stiles beneath thick lashes and bemused brown eyes. “A human,” she said, unimpressed.

Allison huffed, rolled her eyes.

Oliver was tall, brutish, and silent. Wild brown hair, dark eyes, a strong jaw line, and not much else. Stiles doubted if he had been kept around for his brains. If anything, he was there for heavy lifting. Stiles scrabbled in his brain for the connection between brute force and being on the evil side of things but gave up when Lydia came out of the room on her cellphone.

“Yes, Derek is here... Well hurry up,” she snapped. She shoved the phone in her pocket and looked at Derek. “Jackson is on his way.”

“Good,” Derek said. “We can let Stiles in on the plan.”

Stiles raised both hands. “No, I did not agree to that.”

“No choice,” Lydia said briskly. She swept up to Stiles, tutting as she looked him up and down, circled him to get a better idea. Her nose wrinkled and her face twisted into distaste for a moment, but a look from Derek silenced her. “Scott told us you were alive last night and we altered the plans to fit you in.”

“ _She_ altered them,” Allison said helpfully. She had stepped forward when Stiles was focused on Lydia and was standing just a few feet away.

“Well, if Lydia made the plans, you might have a chance,” Stiles said, glaring pointedly at Derek.

“We _are_ at a distinct advantage here,” Lydia said fussily. “You can be our inside man, so to speak. You know the Alphas better than we do, at this point.”

Stiles stiffened. “I'm not helping you. I don't know what Scott or Derek told you but it isn't true.”

Lydia pouted her lips and looked to Derek. “Did you _lie_ to us?” she asked mockingly.

“Stiles is... reluctant,” Derek answered. He lifted his chin fractionally. Lacey nodded back and disappeared into the room. Oliver plodded up the stairs. Derek crossed both arms over his chest. “He could do with some encouragement.”

Allison lifted her phone from her pocket. “It's Scott,” she said.

“Tell him to hurry.”

Stiles rubbed a hand down his face. “I need fresh air,” he said wearily.

“I'll come with,” Lydia offered.

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose but didn't argue. They went up the stairs and through the burnt out house, coming out in the backyard. Stiles wished he had picked up smoking but figured one problem was more than enough for his ADD brain to handle. They were silent, standing on the brown lawn in the darkness. Stiles eventually sat down heavily on the cool cement steps.

He cleared his throat. “So, Derek has his Camero, Scott is driving my Jeep, you still have your Jaguar. Does that mean Jackson is still driving his douche-mobile?”

Lydia pursed her lips. “No, he isn't.” There was a sourness behind her voice that made Stiles look up but her face was unreadable. “He had to get something more logical.”

Stiles nodded and looked down at the grass. “Oh.”

“You reek,” she informed him.

“Tell me how you really feel, Lydia,” he said sarcastically.

Lydia was quiet. She put her hands through her hair then stepped onto the lawn. Her auburn hair glowed in the moonlight, casting soft shadows across her pale face as she turned to face him. Her eyes focused down on Stiles and she put her arms across her chest. “I think you're running away from your problems. You're so far gone in your own alcohol-fueled world that nothing we do is going to bring you out. You blame yourself for what happened and you hate Derek for not coming back. Am I close?” she asked.

Stiles snorted. “Sure.”

Lydia's anger flared. “What you _dont_ know is how many nights Derek stayed awake after we left. He didn't sleep for a week. I found him in the bathroom once, and I still cant decide if he fell asleep in the shower or tried to drown himself. And _Scott_ , my god, if Allison hadn't been there for him I don't think he would have kept himself together.”

Stiles plucked a handful of dead brown grass from the lawn and scattered it at his feet. He couldn't look up at Lydia, and he couldn't bring himself to answer her. He knew how incredibly childish he was being. _With reason_ , he reminded himself sternly.

“You only think of yourself,” Lydia snapped. She stomped her foot in the dead grass to get Stiles' attention. “That's why you smell like alcohol and that's why you're going to pretend all of this is a terrible dream.”

Stiles clenched his fists. “That's not why,” he said.

“Then explain it to me,” Lydia said, flipping hair from her face.

Stiles opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Lydia was getting ready to pounce on her point and Stiles got to his feet. “The Alphas are going to _kill_ you and I'm trying to keep you safe!” he snapped angrily. He remembered, suddenly, a night years ago when Lydia had come into his room. _Do you think this was for me?_ he had demanded. “You left once, you can do it again.”

“We left because we thought you were _dead_. The stakes were too high,” Lydia said, standing her ground.

A vehicle pulled up into the yard from the alley, tires crunching over the dead grass and gravel. It was an old black Chevrolet Voyager, dented on the hood with tinted windows. The mini-van pulled to a stop. Stiles had his mouth open, mid-argument.

The driver's door opened and Jackson got out.

“Is that _Jackson_ driving a _mini-van_?” Stiles asked incredulously. The argument seemed to drop and he snorted a fit of laughter.

Jackson slammed the door as the other doors opened and three new people stepped out. Jackson kissed Lydia and trailed a hand through her hair before looking at Stiles. “Something funny?” he asked sourly.

“Just you driving that,” Stiles answered. He hadn't been aware it would be so _comical_ to see Jackson driving something so _normal_ until it happened.

“Because you're doing so well for yourself,” Jackson said, and left it at that.

Derek appeared in the doorway, dark and brooding against the inside of the burnt out house. “Get inside. We don't have much time,” he ordered. The three new pack members filed obediently into the house. Lydia and Jackson hesitated before slipping inside after them. Derek didn't move from the doorway, his eyes on Stiles.

“Nice mini-van,” Stiles said.

Derek's frown deepened. “Are you coming inside willingly or do I have to drag you?”

Stiles sighed heavily. He scratched the back of his head then ran his hand down his face. “Do I actually have the choice?”

“Not really.”

“Nice.”

 

 

 

 

Scott showed up with Wraith at his heels sucking down a cigarette and glancing sideways to Stiles with a mischievous grin. Stiles pretended not to notice. In the basement of the Argent house, Allison and Lydia had pulled chairs into the open space and, with the exception of Stiles and Derek, everyone sat uneasily. Waiting had been Lydia's idea. Jackson had argued that _“If McCall wanted to be part of this he would have showed up on time.”_ Derek hadn't put a word in edgewise. The three new packmates that had climbed out of Jackson's car had turned out to be only _two_ new members. Danny had changed so much Stiles hadn't recognized him on first sight. It wasn't so much of a physical change as it was a personality change. In High School, Stiles remembered him as the quietly outgoing type with his own little group of friends who didn't make a point to insert himself into foreign situations. Either he had time to settle, or taking the bite had changed him considerably. He jumped out of the van talking a mile-a-minute to the other two.

The other two were nearly identical tall blonde men with blue eyes. Derek introduced them as the Scaag brothers and didn't go into much detail past that. Stiles identified them in his head as the Slightly Taller Scaag Brother and the Slightly Shorter Scaag Brother until he could get their names – if he got their names. He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't here to help these rejects take Beacon Hills, he was here to convince them to _go away_. It was a harder task by the minute, apparently.

Lydia sat with Jackson's hand tangled with her's in her lap. Her other hand played absently with a strand of hair. Allison and Scott sat beside each other, but weren't touching. They looked equally disturbed to be there. Lacey had one leg hooked over the other and was scrutinizing her nails with the intense focus of the drop dead bored. Oliver leaned back in his chair and still managed to look intimidatingly massive. The Scaag brothers sat across from each other, flicking a paperclip between them. Wraith didn't take a seat but leaned against the wall to watch Derek carefully. Derek watched them all from the back of the room, arms crossed over his chest. Stiles stood beside the stairs trying to relax but he wasn't fooling anyone. The entire room, sans Lydia and Allison, was full of werewolves who moved much faster than he could. Even with his escape route beside him, he wouldn't get far before one of them caught up to him. _Oh well, its good to plan._

“Now that we're all here, can we get this _kumbayah_ crap out of the way?” Jackson asked irritably.

Derek glanced at him but didn't rise to the bait. He looked to Stiles and shifted his shoulders. “We have a plan that, prior to last night, didn't involve you. Now Lydia is convinced you can help. So.” He motioned to Lydia.

Lydia pushed hair from her face and crossed her leg over her knee delicately. “I think he wants to hear the original plan first,” she said, bouncing attention back to Derek.

Stiles snorted. “I don't want to hear _any_ plan first.”

Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat and his eyes went from Derek to Stiles. “Listen, just hear us out, okay?”

“The original plan was somewhat simple,” Derek said.

“A suicide mission,” Jackson grumbled under his breath.

 _At least I'm not the only one, not that Jackson is good company,_ Stiles thought bitterly.

“We would send in Jackson and the Scaag brothers from the preserve as a diversion, running from Argent hunters. The Alphas don't patrol it like they should. When they were deciding what to do with three betas chased by hunters, the rest of us would take out as many as we could.”

“At least you know playing dirty is the only way you're going to get anywhere,” Stiles said. “That plan is horrible.”

“That's why we made a new one,” Lydia said with a sly smile. “You're going to tell the Alphas that Derek has come back, alone.”

“That plan is _so_ much better,” Stiles said sarcastically.

“It is, actually,” Allison said. “You can give them the wrong information.”

Suddenly, Stiles saw where they were going with this. “And what if they catch on?” he asked.

“I'll be there,” Derek said.

Silence sifted through the group. Wraith lifted an eyebrow and tapped ash to the dusty floor. The Scaag brothers lost the paperclip but neither of them cared to find it again, their eyes on their Alpha. Lacey shifted and put both feet on the floor, losing interest in her nails. Oliver didn't move but his eyes focused on Derek with a quiet intensity. Lydia sighed heavily, looking unamused. Jackson and Danny shared a quick glance between them. Allison didn't look at all surprised. Scott opened his mouth to protest, loudly, but someone beat him to it.

“That wasn't part of the plan,” Wraith said almost lazily, but there was a hard edge to his voice.

“If the Alphas catch on, Stiles will be in danger,” Derek explained calmly. He sounded like he wanted to go on, but he stopped himself.

“Then let one of us go,” Danny said.

“I can't put you in danger, too.”

Scott slumped down in his chair, looking pitiful. “We can't change the plan,” he groaned.

Lydia tapped a finger against her lips as her eyes searched Derek and Stiles. After a moment's hesitation, she nodded. “That could work to our advantage, too. The Alphas wont expect any of Derek's pack to be with him. Stiles can tell them as much. When the Alphas lower their guard...” She made a slicing motion with her hand and shrugged. “The only difference being they don't have time to gather themselves.”

“When is all this supposed to take place?” Stiles asked sourly.

“Soon,” Scott said, burying his face in his knees.

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow night,” Derek answered.

Stiles felt his heart stutter and he knew the wolves in the room heard it. “Tomorrow night,” he repeated dully. “You think nine werewolves and three humans will be enough to take down the Alphas in Beacon Hills? They're everywhere, Derek.”

“Its enough to start a war.”

“That's all you're going to accomplish,” Stiles snapped. The rest of the pack looked uneasy and he wondered if they had suspected he would back out. It almost made him want to jump full-force into the suicide mission, show them he could do it. “What about the Argents? Where do they fit in the new plan?”

“They're already out,” Allison answered. “They're fully armed and waiting for my signal.”

“They still don't trust Derek?” Stiles asked. His tone was more biting than he had intended it to be.

Allison barely flinched, but Stiles caught it. She looked to Derek, then shrugged. “I'm one of theirs, Derek isn't,” she answered.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Stiles said wearily and ran a hand down his face. “Its suicide, you know that.”

Jackson snorted.

Stiles sighed heavily. “Fine.” His voice was flat. “Fine. I want a gun and I want wolfsbane.”

Allison's lips twitched into a small smile. “Done.”

Derek's frown deepened, his eyebrows furrowed in thought or anger. Stiles couldn't tell which from across the room. Wraith was staring at Derek, actually hadn't stopped since the meeting began, and Stiles wanted to demand exactly _what_ was with that weirdo, but he forced himself not to care. It wasn't his business and he wasn't about to make it his.

“I'll bring you back to your apartment,” Derek said. “Tomorrow, you have to contact the Alphas.”

“I have a good idea that they'll contact me,” Stiles said.

“Then that's that. Everyone get some sleep.” Derek looked around the room. He barely seemed to register the people around him and he didn't speak when he left the basement, stomping up the stairs like he could take his anger out on the house.

“Pack meeting adjourned,” Stiles said with a sardonic smirk.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its a long story about why Jackson driving a Mini-Van is just so damn funny to me. I almost always bring myself to tears I'm laughing about it so hard.
> 
> Also, if you were unaware, my tumblr is dannythequeerghost, where I frequently update information about Closing TIme and have been compiling a playlist of sorts that I listen to while writing or that reminds me of the story. Gosh I feel dirty for shamelessly advertising myself like that.


	8. Chapter 8

Derek didn't speak as he drove. Both hands gripped the steering wheel tight and his body was practically vibrating with activity but he managed to keep the speed limit. He stopped a block from Stiles' apartment, turned off the Camero and glared at the dark building as if it would solve all his problems. In the passenger seat, Stiles licked his lips nervously. He didn't know where to go with everything that had happened in the Argent house and he wasn't sure he wanted to talk to Derek anyway. Stiles had his fingers around the door handle when he stopped and pressed his lips together tightly, curiosity winning out over peevish tenacity. “Where's Peter?” he asked.

Derek sighed and leaned back in his seat. He slapped the steering wheel. “Really?”

Stiles let the handle go and sat back in his own seat. His amber gaze fixed onto Derek. “Really. Where's Peter? You said _the whole pack_ and as far as I can see, Peter isn't here.”

Derek drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and sighed again. “We sent him in first.”

“Why Peter?”

“Because no one _likes_ Peter. No one cares if Peter _dies_ ,” Derek snapped angrily.

“Okay, fair enough.” Stiles paused. He couldn't read Derek's scowl past the very obvious irritation. “Where's Isaac? Erica? Boyd? Last I heard, they were part of your pack, too.”

For the first time since Derek reappeared, he looked genuinely hurt. His scowl softened into a thin frown and his throat moved as he swallowed down whatever had been on the tip of his tongue. He stared out the window as he answered. “Boyd is dead. Erica and Isaac are missing.”

Stiles tried to glean anything else out of Derek, but the man was a mask of irritation and pain over whatever he was thinking about. Stiles decided he didn't _want_ to to know. “Oh,” he said stupidly. “That explains a lot.”

“Does it?” Derek snapped. He turned to face Stiles, eyes blazing red. “Enlighten me, because I'm not sure it does.”

Stiles didn't shrink from the attack, but he didn't rise up to it either. He fumbled with the door handle, his eyes not leaving Derek's. If there was one battle he was _going_ to win, it was a staring contest with an alpha werewolf that didn't know how to be an alpha werewolf when the times got hard. Before he popped the handle, he asked, “How are we doing this?”

Derek blinked. The red faded. “What?”

“When I contact the Alphas, you said you were going to be there. How are we going to do this?”

Derek's eyes flicked to the apartment, then back to Stiles. “I'll keep watch.”

Stiles frowned at the suggestion. Something else was struggling, half formed, at the back of his mind. “Because that's not creepy.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to leave me alone. Short of that, stay. I'm going to think of something tonight and it would be nice having someone to bounce ideas off.”

Derek hesitated, as if sensing a trap.

“Look, I realize I've been an asshole and you've deserved every second of it but when I'm asking you for something the least you can do is submit to my request,” Stiles said bitchily.

“Because I don't have anything better to do.”

“Exactly,” Stiles answered, not bothering to acknowledge the sarcasm.

Eventually Derek was convinced, or maybe he just wanted to shut Stiles up. Despite not being his old self, Stiles was still excellent at flapping his lips incessantly about nothing until whoever he was trying to sway was, properly, swayed. The pair walked into the apartment and Stiles closed the door behind them. He took a small broom from a peg on the wall and began sweeping the Mountain Ash back into a straight line. Derek tensed, his whole body rigid and poised for a fight. Stiles looked up from the small hand held broom, eyed Derek, and went back to straightening his line. When he was satisfied he stood up and hooked the broom over the peg. Derek didn't move as Stiles stepped around him and pulled the freezer door open to rummage through it. He took out an unmarked bottle and poured a glass. After a careful consideration, he poured a second glass.

“Here,” he said, shoving the second glass into Derek's hands. “I know you cant get drunk but something tells me you tried earlier so at least I know you have a taste for it.”

Derek didn't answer as he took the glass cautiously, like it was going to bite him.

Stiles tucked the bottle back into the freezer, grabbed his glass, and walked to the sofa. “You can sleep on the floor,” he said pointedly, flopping onto the sofa without spilling a drop of alcohol.

“Why am I here?” Derek asked.

“Because I'm a known alcoholic, I have no regard for my life, and I recognize the signs in other people,” Stiles answered. After a sip of his drink, he grinned. “And because I really like seeing you sweat when you're trapped somewhere you don't want to be.”

“If this is some kind of payback...” Derek started.

“Not at all,” Stiles answered. “Actually, I'm excited to kill some Alphas.” He let the word hang there ominously, tilted his head back to lay against the arm of the sofa. The glass rested on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. He drummed a simple four-beat pattern on his leg as he stared at the ceiling.

A minute passed. Derek slammed his glass down on the stove-top, rattling the metal. “Break the line,” he snarled.

“I don't think so.”

“Stiles, break the line or I swear...”

“No. Tell me why you came back.”

Derek blinked and his shoulders tightened.

Stiles didn't move but his fingers still tapped out the beat against his thigh. “Not back to Beacon Hills, I've heard that enough times. Back for me. I wasn't part of the plan, I was the catalyst to the plan.” He shifted, catching the glass before it fell to the floor and licking the droplets from the side. He pulled himself against the back of the sofa and sat staring at Derek. “You could have left me in the bathroom stall or called the cops. You could have kept on with the plan when I vanished. Instead you went out of your way to find me and you told the rest of the pack I was alive. Why?”

Derek Hale didn't often look surprised. Eyes widened a fraction as he worked out the answer. Stiles stared at him intently and Derek shifted unconsciously beneath the gaze. “You're pack,” he answered.

Stiles was quiet as he continued tapping the rhythm.

“Like Lydia and Allison,” Derek said. He swallowed hard and his eyes had a wavering quality as he matched Stiles' gaze.

“No,” Stiles said after what seemed like ages. “No, Lydia and Allison have Jackson and Scott to tie them to the pack. And, Lydia is immune.” He pulled his fingers from his thigh, sipped the alcohol but never dropped Derek's attention. When he set the glass down on his chest his eyes seemed to flicker with defiance. “I have no ties to the pack.”

Stiles didn't want to say that kissing Danny once-upon-a-time wasn't a bonding sort of thing, especially since Danny was a human then. He figured Derek knew about that, hell, everyone knew about that. If Derek didn't, then he was a few years behind the gossip mill and Stiles wasn't going to fill him in.

Derek's jaw tightened and a twitch ran through his muscles. It was so fractional, Stiles wondered if he had imagined it. Derek picked the glass up and tossed it back, draining it in one long swallow. Stiles tried not to hide his approval as Derek slammed the glass back against the stove-top. “You're pack,” he repeated firmly.

“Care for another?” Stiles asked, motioning to the glass with his chin.

“You're Scott's best friend,” Derek pressed, red shifting behind his gray eyes.

“Somehow I doubt that pack bond goes for best friends. Stop lying to me.”

Derek's jaw clenched tighter. It looked like he would break his teeth if his muscles contracted even a fraction more. A long minute passed in which Stiles drained his glass and slid off the sofa to grab the bottle from the freezer. He filled Derek's glass before his own and tapped the rims together before taking a drink from his own glass.

“So why did you come back for me?” he asked, triumphant in his small victory.

Derek didn't look at him. His eyes were focused on the dark window, in the night where Stiles couldn't see. “You're pack to _me_ ,” he answered through grit teeth.

Stiles hesitated on his drink as his amber eyes flicked to Derek's in search of _something._ His mind raced to pick up the pieces of his victory but failed miserably. Instead, he found himself with the feeling of Derek's arms around him and the leafy, earthen smell of him. A small sound came from his throat and he coughed to mask it. “ _Oh_ ,” he said breathlessly. Stupidly. There were so many more things he could say at that moment and he had gone for _oh_ like some kind of snobby self-absorbed teenager.

Derek swallowed and refused to look at Stiles or unclench his jaw.

“I don't suppose this is a consensual thing,” Stiles said quickly. “I mean, by that, I mean, have you considered that I don't consent to being part of your pack or did you just think I would be a happy puppy with a bone and consent away instead of, I mean, really, I'm not _consenting_ to being part of your pack just because you have some kind of creepy werewolf bond with me, let me tell you now, that's _not_ happening.”

Derek shifted and reached for the glass. Stiles shied away, holding his own glass protectively with both eyes watching like a cornered rabbit. Derek made an exception for the alcohol and unclenched his jaw long enough to swallow it down forcefully. It didn't seem to be doing a damn thing other than making him more irritated that it _wasn't_ doing anything.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

Stiles stopped mid-sentence.

Derek set the glass on the stove with a gentle tap. He placed his palms on either side and leaned heavily against the cool metal of the stove. Shadows caught across his face, sharpening the angle of his nose and the curve of his cheekbones. “You don't have to consent to anything.”

“So its the werewolf version of a shotgun wedding,” Stiles said bluntly.

Derek's eyes shifted to catch Stiles' for a moment before he shook his head. “Not like that.”

Stiles had expected Derek to be furious with him, not defeated and quiet. He held his glass tightly in one hand and watched Derek carefully. There were a million things rushing through his head and none of them were going to be easy if Derek was going to roll over meekly at something this simple. There was still a chance he could convince the others to leave if Derek were otherwise incapacitated. At this point, Stiles wasn't sure why he wanted the Hale pack out so badly. They wormed their way in and clawed for a solid anchor to their old home and no amount of cajoling Stiles could do was very likely to change that. Not as long as Derek was still standing on two feet and barking orders. The idea hit him like a punch, nearly doubled him over, and he fought hard to keep it from showing on his face. Somewhere in his tiny apartment there was a bottle of sleeping pills. If he could somehow crush them and get Derek to drink them...

“A pack bond isn't always a mutual thing. It isn't even a real _thing,_ its just something you made up,” Derek said. His voice was soft and low and Stiles had to strain to hear him. “Do you know why Danny is pack?”

“Because you bit him?” Stiles asked.

Derek lifted his lip in a sneer and rolled his eyes. “No, idiot, because Jackson is part of the pack.”

“Before you bit him, you mean?” Stiles asked defensively. He hadn't been aware that Derek knew what attraction looked like, let alone that he could pick it out between members of his pack. He raised an eyebrow. He had been quite sure Derek Hale was an unfeeling robot when it came to that kind of thing. Apparently, he had been wrong, and he wasn't sure he liked where that was going.

Derek nodded.

“Creepy of you to notice.”

“I'm the alpha, I'm not _blind_ ,” Derek said curtly.

Stiles wasn't convinced. “So why am I pack? Does Lydia secretly love me after all these years? Is it because I've had a crush on her since the third grade? Maybe Jackson has unrequited feelings for me, that would be new.”

Derek huffed. “ _Me_ ,” he strained. “You're pack because of _me_ , jesus, do you ever listen?”

“ _You_ love me?” Stiles asked, eyebrows shooting up in a mingling look of confusion and interest.

“No,” Derek said, too quickly. “No, its not, no, Stiles, just _shut up._ You asked for an explanation and I gave it to you.”

“Not really,” Stiles said moodily. He gulped down the alcohol and licked his lips. The thought of knocking Derek out with sleeping pills was looking more tantalizing every second. Not only would he be out of the way, he wouldn't be saying confusing and irritating things. Potentially damaging things, if Stiles listened long enough.

Derek didn't seem to notice when Stiles set the glass down on the stove beside his hand. Stiles took it for a good sign and vanished into the bathroom. Just in case, he locked the door behind him. The medicine cabinet was stocked to the brim with various bottles of pills. Most of them were from his six-month hospital stay and subsequent rehabilitation process. Rather than take them, he had anesthetized himself with alcohol and tucked the pills away for a rainy day when it all became too much. He pulled out a translucent orange bottle of pills marked _oxazepam_. He barely skimmed the label before emptying three tablets into his palm and looking them over. After a quick calculation in his head that Lydia would be either slightly proud or incredibly disappointed of, he emptied two more into his palm.

Derek had moved so he was leaning the small of his back against the stove, arms crossed over his chest and pale eyes peering into the middle distance. The look he gave Stiles, when he finally pulled his gaze from nowhere, was halfway between interest and worry. Stiles pretended not to notice. The pills were in his pocket and he could feel them through the fabric of the sweatpants like they were burning.

“Go... sit down and I'll pour another drink,” he said hesitantly. He still wasn't sure if Derek would listen to him or suddenly snap and go off like he expected.

Derek looked at him and sighed. He didn't answer as he walked to the sofa and sat down mechanically without taking much comfort in the motion.

Stiles pulled the bottle out of the freezer and swiped the pills from his pocket in nearly the same movement. He dropped them into Derek's glass and poured the alcohol over them. If they didn't dissolve, he wasn't sure what he would do. They fizzed when the liquid touched them and he took that for a good sign. In three seconds he realized it was a bad sign as the bubbles began creeping up the side of the glass. _Oh shit, oh shit._ He poured his glass and opened the fridge.

“I'm mixing something, hope you don't mind,” he said a fraction too loudly. Derek didn't seem to notice. He searched for anything in his bare fridge to mask the bubbles and pulled out a jar of pickles that had most likely expired but he wasn't going to check. It was the only thing he had. He poured some brine into both glasses, then plopped a pickle into both. He swirled the pickle in Derek's drink, trying desperately to dissolve the pills. They were fizzing slower and appeared to have rapidly diminished in size. That was good. Very good.

The concoctions smelled foul and once the pills had all but vanished he stopped stirring the pickle around like a madman. Stiles wasn't sure alcohol and sleeping pills would be safe even for a werewolf but he didn't dwell on it. He brought both glasses to the sofa and shoved the glass into Derek's hands. His hands were shaking. He sat heavily on the arm of the couch and gripped his glass with both hands, pouring every bit of his concentration into not shaking.

“What is this?” Derek asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Uh... special drink I picked up from The Stray Dog.”

Derek looked up at Stiles with an unreadable expression. His lips pressed into a thin line and he held the glass out at arms length before bringing it to his lips. He took a sip and shuddered. To his credit, he didn't mention the taste or even ask _“What is that bitter tang?”_

Stiles sipped his own drink. He could have almost felt bad for tricking someone who had never seen it coming. Derek was right to make a face, but he wasn't about to show it. He forced a smile. “Tastes good to me.”

Another long silence passed. Stiles tried not to drink more than he had to. Derek looked like he was never going to touch the liquid again. Then, with jerky mechanical movements, he pressed the glass to his lips and held it there. Stiles felt his heartbeat stammering and wished he could control that, too. If the smell wasn't going to give him away, his heartbeat and the waves of guilty sweat rolling off him were going to do the job. Derek pulled the glass from his lips and held it in both hands in his lap.

“Break the line,” he said again.

“I would love to,” Stiles said. He pulled an ankle up under him and balanced his glass on his knee. “You still haven't answered my question.”

“I have,” Derek said with a lengthy sigh.

“Okay, so I'm pack. Is that some kind of werewolf law or just something you made up?”

Derek scowled. Or, more accurately, scowled deeper than he had already been scowling. “Its like a call, but it isn't a law. We don't have to follow it.” He sipped the drink that would be his undoing - if Stiles had any say in it - and grimaced. “When Jackson was the Kanima, his call was Lydia. She was part of his pack, even if he wasn't part of mine. Its why she could stop him.”

Stiles swirled his drink. “So back to this you thing,” he said casually. “I'm your 'call,' whatever that really is?”

“Not always,” Derek answered. “No, it was Laura for a long time.”

“Sick, dude,” Stiles groaned, almost sounding like the unruly teenager he had been.

“You're messed up in the head, you know that?” Derek demanded, glaring at him. “Calls aren't purely sexual things.”

“So you don't love me?”

“No.”

“No you _don't_ love me, or no you _do_ love me?” Stiles asked.

“Why does that matter?”

Stiles hesitated to answer.

“Love is a strong word anyway. You're too irritating to _love_.”

“That hurts.”

“Good.”

They were quiet. Stiles tolerated the alcohol and wondered how long it would take Derek to slam his back and ask for more. He didn't know what he was going to do when Derek did pass out face-first on the floor. His first instinct told him to go back to The Stray Dog in search of the hawk-nosed Alpha and his short companion. _Riley's nameless brother._ Stiles shoved that thought away and concentrated on Derek's face. This was the last direction he had hoped for the night to go. What had he really expected? The entire reason for trapping Derek in the apartment had been to keep him out of the way the next day, when Stiles was able to form a plan. Now here he was ticking the seconds before he had to improvise some crazy series of events and hope everything went good. At least he was in his own territory now.

Stiles didn't have long to worry. Derek gulped down the alcohol and set the glass on the table. He began talking about something, maybe he was trying to explain why he had come back, but it streamed out in a garbled mess. Then, mid-sentence, Derek took a breath and fell off the sofa. Stiles jumped from the sofa, hands flying instantly to Derek's body. He pressed two fingers into Derek's neck, checking for a pulse, and exhaled in relief as he felt it. The ragged blanket from the sofa was tangled beneath Derek's legs but Stiles pulled as much as he could over the unconscious body. He lingered in the small studio a few minutes longer, almost torn between making sure Derek didn't die of some kind of terrible alcohol-sleeping-pill overdose and taking care of the business he had set out to after leaving the Argent house.

Logic beat out his feelings, however new and fledgling they were. Stiles grabbed Derek's keys, checked the Mountain Ash once last time, and left the studio quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support and for sticking with me this far. You guys are all the best.


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles tucked the keys to Derek's Camero into his pocket and began walking. If Derek _did_ manage to get out of the apartment, he wouldn't be going anywhere very fast. Stiles had enough time to seek out the Alphas and... He didn't know what, exactly, he would do then. Eventually, somewhere, he would run into an Alpha and that was as far as he had planned. It was a lot like throwing a rock at a lake and expecting it to hit water. When he put his mind to it the hawk-nosed Alpha wasn't hard to find. After nearly a half-hour of aimless wandering Stiles stopped at The Stray Dog. The bartender had a drink in hand and was sliding it into Stiles' customary spot, but Stiles walked by with barely a glance. The bartender froze and watched Stiles with widening eyes and a fleeting expression twisted his face. Stiles noticed for only a moment. The hawk-nosed Alpha was sitting with two others, the short Alpha and a wiry teenage girl. They were deep in conversation over whatever drink they had ordered. Stiles stepped directly up to the table and smacked both hands palm down on the surface. The three Alphas looked up at him. All but the hawk-nosed brother of Riley flinched. Stiles glared at him without acknowledging the other two.

The Alpha stared back, his eyes giving nothing away, not even telltale red. “I thought we said we would find you.”

“I found you first,” Stiles said.

The hawk-nosed Alpha smirked. “I can see that. Have something for us, do you?”

The short Alpha and the wiry teenager glanced around the bar with wild eyes, then to the hawk-nosed Alpha. The short one spoke first. “Conner...” he muttered under his breath, eyes sliding sideways to Stiles.

The hawk-nosed Alpha - _Conner -_ flinched and glanced to his companion. “What?” he asked.

“Not here.”

Conner blinked and turned his eyes to Stiles. “Right.”

The wiry Alpha slid out from the table and vanished but Stiles wasn't paying attention to her. He had never seen her before and he wasn't here to talk to people he didn't know. His attention was on Conner. “What do you mean, not here?” he asked.

“We said we would find you,” Conner snapped irritably. “Now we have to drag you somewhere they wont see us.”

 _They_ turned out to be a group of middle-aged men and the bartender who had stopped everything to stare at the Alphas and Stiles. Their horrified faces and wide eyes made Stiles uneasy and he looked away from the bartender quickly. The man had been scrutinizing Stiles' black eye and bruised face more than Stiles wanted him to. The wiry teenager was nowhere to be seen and Stiles felt a strange tingle run through him at the thought that she was out getting another Alpha. He shoved it away and turned back to Conner.

“Where, then?” he asked.

“Depends,” Conner answered. He tilted his glass back and drained it. “What do you have for us?”

“Derek Hale.”

Conner's eyes blinked suddenly and his eyebrows twitched up before crashing down in a disapproving frown. “No,” he said. After a moment, he pushed the glass away and got to his feet. “Leave quiet-like with us. Don't make any sudden moves.”

They walked out the front and circled around the back. Conner let the short Alpha lead, bending at the waist to whisper into his ear the whole way. When the pair stopped behind The Stray Dog, Conner's mouth was pressed into a thin, distasteful line. The short Alpha tucked his hands behind his back and eyed Stiles. They stood a few paces from the dumpster within clear sight of the road and angled themselves to keep Stiles hidden behind the building. Stiles had no choice but to stand with his back to the dumpster and no view of what was happening on any side. The Stray Dog was in a desolate part of town compared to most and rather than butting up with other businesses, the old brick building emptied into a thin alleyway with a high-backed wooden fence along the length of it.

“What do you have?” the short Alpha asked.

“I know where Derek Hale is,” Stiles answered. He tried not to think about the dumpster at his back.

“Tell us.”

Stiles' eyes flickered from the short Alpha to Conner. He took in a deep breath. “What do I get out of it?”

“A quick death,” Conner answered. “A long life. A slow death. Cement loafers, maybe. It depends on how happy we are with what you tell us.”

Stiles thought that over. Then he answered, in a steady voice, “Derek is in New York.”

The short Alpha didn't flinch. Conner's shoulders shook with a barely controlled chuckle. The short Alpha sighed. “You'll have to do better than that. New York is a big state and you reek of deception.” He grinned wickedly, baring his teeth. “Unless you want a second black eye to match the first.”

“Ah,” Stiles said, as if he knew the answer. Of course he knew the answer. “Okay, last I heard, he was searching for Laura's pack in New York. I don't know the exact city.”

“Who's with him?” Conner asked.

“How should I know?”

“Scott McCall?” the short Alpha asked, eyebrow raised.

“Probably.” Stiles swallowed hard. It didn't feel so bad, selling his friends down the river like this. Once the Alphas got to New York – if they were going at all – they would pick up Derek's trail and by then it would be too late. The Hale pack would either stand and fight or they would be on the run the rest of their lives. They would, however, have at least a three month's worth head start, and Stiles thought that should count for something.

“Why don't you come out to the preserve with us?” The short Alpha had a smirk on his lips. It wasn't a question or a request. It was a threat.

“I'd rather not,” Stiles answered warily.

“Mirror ran off,” Conner said simply. “You have to know why.”

Stiles frowned. Mirror... _must be the teenager_. The tingling sensation came back, slithering up his spine and writhing in the pit of his stomach. She was off for more Alphas, had to be. An involuntary shiver ran through his bones. He didn't respond.

“She's getting the closest we have to a leader out here,” Conner said. “Sardis, big mean fucker, so don't fuck with him when he gets here.”

 _Sardis_. Stiles felt like someone had punched him in the jaw. The name sent a strange familiarity rising the hair at the back of his neck. He couldn't place a face or even a voice to the name. Not even a feeling. He just knew the name and knew it very well. “How long?”

“Ten minutes. If he decides to come out. He likes keeping his hands _clean_ ,” the short Alpha said with a roll of his eyes. “Either our boys can come down here to the alley and make a scene, or you can come with us where we can do our business in private.”

Crunching gravel caused both Alphas to snap to attention, their eyes flying to the street. Conner stumbled where he stood and his eyes widened. The short Alpha's frown creased deeper and his eyes narrowed into crimson slits. The crunching stopped.“You really think he's going to let you murder him where no one will hear?” a gruff, thick voice asked. There was a hint of a scoff in the tone.

Stiles knew that voice. He whipped around without care that his back was to the Alphas. “Derek, how the _hell_ did you-”

“Shut up, Stilinski,” Conner snapped. “We'll deal with you in your time.”

“I don't think so,” Derek said. He straightened up with one arm against the wall to hold him steady. Dark stubble stood out against ghostly pale skin. Wide bruises framed his sunken eyes. He looked like he had gone ten rounds in a fighting pit after a week of no sleep. Beneath his cool gaze his knees trembled to support his weight.

Stiles flashed back to the first time he had been close enough to touch Derek Hale. The parking lot at the school, after Derek was shot by Kate Argent and had collapsed. Had there been a call then? Stiles didn't want to know the answer. He rationalized, quickly and almost reflexively, that Derek had been dying and of course he would go to the first person he could. The thought didn't reassure him as much as it made him want the answer.

“I heard you were looking for me,” Derek said simply. “Here I am.”

“Stilinski made it sound like you were in New York,” Conner said. “We don't like being jerked around.”

“You don't look so great,” the short Alpha said.

“I'm fine,” Derek hissed.

“How about we _test_ that theory?”

The short Alpha sprang forward with a vicious snarl, taking Derek off guard with the assault. Conner circled around while Derek's attention was on the other. Derek pushed himself off the wall and raised his arms to fend off the blows from the short Alpha. Each hit left him staggering and barely able to hold himself up. He lashed out and caught the short Alpha along the jaw, sending him careening back. Conner leaped in to fill the gap, his elbow cracking into Derek's ribs and one clawed hand grabbing Derek around the throat to shove him against the brick wall. Derek snarled and bared his fangs, tried to claw Conner's hands away from him, but he was too weak.

Stiles cast about the ground for anything he could use as a weapon. A long piece of wood broken off a pallet caught his eye and he grabbed for it. He was a human, but he was never useless. The improvised weapon sent slivers into his palms as he swung it down hard on the short Alpha's head. The Alpha yowled more in outrage than pain and spun around, a hand snapping the board in half with a powerful grip. Stiles used the bit left in his hand to stab at the Alpha. His world went spinning as a blow caught him across the face and he slammed into the ground. He gasped as a foot slammed into his stomach and he felt a distinct _crack_ that sent white-hot tendrils of pain through his chest.

When he opened his eyes, Conner still held Derek by the throat up against the wall and was yelling into his face. He couldn't have been out for more than a few seconds. He tried to pull himself to his feet, swayed and fell back to his knees. He reached for the chunk of wood as movement caught his eye. There was a furious snarl and the sound of gravel crunching beneath running feet. A blurry streak of red slammed into Conner and Derek like a freight train and they all went down in a heap of flailing limbs and bloody snarls. The short Alpha looked at the pile of clawing, biting creatures and had a moment's hesitation. Stiles pulled himself to his feet and steadied himself against the dumpster, fingers still pressed tightly around the chunk of wood. He gathered his strength and threw it as hard and as true as he could. It smacked into the side of the short Alpha's head, slicing a cut along the man's temple. Blood poured out thickly, slicking the side of his face dark red and furious.

“I'm going to make sure you pay for that,” the Alpha snarled through his fangs. He leaped forward with one fist pulled back. Stiles flattened himself against the dumpster and cringed back as the fist hurtled towards him.

Clawed hands snaked from behind the man's head, gripped his face and twisted. A violent snap ended the short Alpha's life before his fist hit Stiles. His body collapsed at Stiles' feet, exactly where it had been aiming. Standing behind him, Wraith looked down in distaste. A thick ribbon of blood streamed from his nose to his lips and dripped steadily from his chin. Stiles slid down the side of the dumpster and pushed the dead body away with his shoe, as far as it would go.

“Don't do that,” Wraith said, flipping his hand vaguely. He wiped at his bloody nose with his wrist.

Stiles was used to wolfed-out looks. Heavy brows, mouth-opening fangs, heavy-duty claws, hair in places it really shouldn't be. Wraith was a beautiful man and didn't offend the eye quite as much as Derek or Scott as a werewolf. The red hair that Stiles had so easily taken for fake turned out to be basically the real thing, just a few shades brighter. For some reason, it only added to the list of reasons that Stiles didn't like the weirdo.

Wraith held out a bloody hand and his features slid back to human. “There's not much time.”

Stiles ran his hand down his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What? Why are you here?”

“I go where he goes,” Wraith answered, jerking his chin towards Derek. A slow grin parted his lips and a broken eye tooth gaped black from the space. “Its a good thing, too. I saved your life. You'd ought to be grateful.”

Stiles reluctantly took Wraith's hand and got to his feet, wobbly at the knees. “Your tooth,” he said vaguely.

“Bloody hell, don't remind me,” Wraith answered, holding his hands out to make sure Stiles didn't fall flat on his face.

“Do teeth _heal?”_

“Go ask Oliver some time.” Wraith glanced Stiles up and down, seemed satisfied with his stability, and moved away. He stepped over the body of the short Alpha and stooped beside Derek who was shaking his head and trying to get to his feet. Wraith pulled him up in one easy motion and surveyed the damage.

Derek took it in, too. “Who are they?” he asked.

Stiles opened his mouth and was halfway through saying, “They're just some-” when Wraith stepped in for him.

“That's Owen,” he said, jerking a chin towards the short Alpha. “Bloody idiot, I never liked him. The other one's Conner. Brother of Riley, which makes an awful lot of sense why he has it out for Stiles.”

Conner was out cold on the ground with one cheek pressed into the gravel. Derek looked at him, then to Owen's body, and shook his head. He pushed himself away from Wraith's supporting hands and took a few shaking steps on his own. His eyes were fixed on Stiles and burning with anger.

“I should leave you to die,” Derek growled, but his heart wasn't in it. His lips twisted in a grimace of pain and his anger softened. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I was getting you out of this stupid situation but you kind of ruined that,” Stiles answered.

“You _drugged_ me,” Derek said incredulously.

“You told me Wraith was part of Laura's pack,” Stiles countered with a steely gaze.

“I never did. I never said, ' _This is Wraith and he was part of Laura's pack.'_ Don't turn this around.”

“Try telling me the truth sometime, then,” Stiles hissed.

Wraith looked uncomfortable as he struck a match and lit his cigarette. Tension slipped out of his shoulders on the first drag and he blew smoke into the empty air. “I was part of the Alpha pack,” he said flatly. “Now I'm not. Can we take this domestic somewhere safe, before they get here with reinforcements?”

Derek took his eyes from Stiles and nodded once.

“Wait, you're just going to leave him alive?” Stiles asked, motioning wildly to Conner.

“Why kill him?” Wraith asked, flashing a broken-toothed grin. “They'll have a lot more to talk about if they know I'm alive, too.”

Stiles licked his lips and rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. “Where's safe?”

Derek and Wraith exchanged a glance. Derek tilted his head back fractionally. “The preserve.”

“That's not _safe_ ,” Stiles argued.

“You did start the plan early,” Wraith pointed out. “We're just following through on it earlier than expected.”

“Can you run?” Derek asked, noting the shaking in Stiles' knees.

“Can _I_ run? More like, can _you_ run?”

“I'll be fine. Lets go.”

Derek turned and the conversation was over. The three of them left the alleyway at a brisk walk, but between them only Wraith wasn't limping. Derek stumbled twice across the road, once nearly face-planting into the sidewalk. Stiles held one arm tight across his chest and small panting gasps escaped his lips on every step. Wraith walked behind them, catching them before they fell but never once telling them to pick up the speed. He steadily sucked down his cigarette and kept them moving. Derek began walking easier as they turned at the end of the street. Stiles still held his chest and the color had drained from his face. Every step sent another low gasp from his lips. Finally, Derek stopped walking and turned to him.

“Look, I'm not carrying you,” he said. His eyes landed on Wraith.

“ _I'm_ not carrying him, he's _your_ pet,” Wraith hissed.

Derek bared his teeth and Wraith backed down, turned to sulk with his cigarette. Derek hooked one arm under Stiles' shoulder and supported the majority of their weight. He was so close, Stiles could smell the stale booze, sweat, and blood. Until that moment, Stiles hadn't noticed the cuts across Derek's neck that weren't healing. Blood dribbled down the curve of his neck, dripped over his collarbone and beneath his shirt. Stiles wanted to dab it away with a shirt and his hand was almost touching Derek's neck when the alpha tensed and glanced at him. He took his hand away and they continued moving.

The pace was slow, even after Derek had the majority of his strength back. Wraith moved at such an easy lope he made Derek and Stiles look like the infirm off a war field. The treeline of the preserve loomed ahead of them, dark and dappled in the light of the half-moon. They slipped between the trees and pressed forward. Derek stumbled over uneven ground and lost his footing. Stiles tumbled to the forest floor with a yelp of pain and quickly pulled himself against the trunk of a tree. His back pressed into the bark as he held his arm over his chest. Wraith stopped walking but didn't move to help either to their feet. Derek had caught himself on a branch and was straightening up.

“Stiles,” he said. He stepped closer and squatted so their faces were level.

“I'm fine,” Stiles gritted.

“Right,” Derek said with a quirked eyebrow. The blood on his neck had dried and was beginning to flake off around the edges. “How many Alphas at the hospital?”

“I don't _need_ the hospital.”

Derek reached out with one hand, slid it between Stiles' arm and chest, and pressed lightly. Stiles gasped and jerked away. “A cracked rib, maybe a broken one, maybe more,” Derek said, taking his hand back.

“I just need to stop walking, is all,” Stiles insisted. “Nothing is broken. Its my body, I would know.”

Derek moved his hand.

Stiles jerked away with a scowl. “I'm _fine_ so stop it.”

“I'll knock him out, if you wont do it,” Wraith said lazily. Smoke curled from his lips as he waved the cigarette towards the pair.

Derek stood up and brushed the front of his pants. Dirt and leaves fell to the ground. “I'm sorry,” he said.

Stiles opened his mouth to protest and got out, “ _Don't fucking touch-”_ before the world went black.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly a chapter involving talking. Action in the next two chapters. Done by chapter twelve. Its all planned out now.

 Stiles could feel the pounding in his head as they moved up a flight of stairs. Every step like the beating of a war drum between his ears with bursts of kaleidoscope color. Twice he tried opening his eyes, and twice he wasn't sure if he was dreaming or if the things he saw were really happening. Blood splattered up a wall in a graceful arc, droplets fanning out along windows and lights. Shadows whirled madly in the white corridors as the war drums beat on and on, closer and closer, until Stiles couldn't hear anything else. Once he opened his eyes to see trees slipping by as if he were standing still on a moving walkway. Leaves shifted overhead and moonlight slanted through the open spaces, blinding him when the beams washed over his face. An owl flew silently overhead and kept pace with wide wingbeats that matched the war drums slamming ceaselessly against his skull. When he opened his eyes and saw his father, he knew he was dead.

Except, funny thing about dreams, he woke up and found out he wasn't dead. Isaac sat beside the bed in silence. His wide eyes fixed carefully onto a point in the distance and gentle hands folded into his lap as patient as the Mother Teresa herself. Stiles sat up with his mouth open and the world slipped back into blackness.

The next time he woke, neither dead Sheriff Stilinski or missing Isaac Lahey were sitting beside him as grim reminders of his second brush with the Alphas. Lydia stood at the end of his bed, folding what looked like white hospital towels into neat triangles and origami shapes. A small pile of origami animals sat mounded on the chair beside the bed, which explained why she was _standing_. When she saw his eyes open, she put the towel down and smiled. He pushed himself up with his elbows and felt the world tilt dangerously, bringing his stomach with it. He had just enough time to lean over the side of the bed before passing out.

He woke up and subsequently knocked himself out twice more. The first time he woke by himself in the room. In his panic, he tried to get out of bed, ripped the IV from his wrist, and bled all over the floor after passing out. The second time, Wraith greeted him with a wide grin, showing off the broken tooth and a cigarette tucked into the hole where it should have been. Wraith patted his arm and said, _“Sorry, I don't do bedside chats,”_ and before Stiles had time to reply, flipped a valve on the IV line. Stiles was out before the first word formed in his mind. When he finally woke without knocking himself out or being knocked out, he found Scott. He was shifting uncomfortably in the chair, which he had pulled all the way to the bed so his knees were pressed into the mattress and his face hovered inches from Stiles' in practiced, infinite worry.

“Dude, no,” Stiles moaned as he turned his head away and closed his eyes. His voice cracked with disuse and the words grated against his throat on their way out. He swallowed dryly a few times around the sour taste in his mouth and worked his jaw. A pounding behind his eyes and a cold sweat across his body was all he needed to know it had been too long since his last drink.

“That's the first thing you've said in two days,” Scott said, and his voice bordered somewhere on absolutely elated and monumentally relieved. It was all he could do to keep himself seated in the chair. Stiles could _feel_ him vibrating through the mattress.

“I know,” Stiles said. He didn't know, at least not how long it had been, but he did know he hadn't spoken. He was, after all, _there_ the whole time. Speaking felt like ripping fishhooks out of his throat. He mimed drinking a glass of water without opening his eyes then held his hand out. There was a rush of movement and a cool glass was pressed into his outstretched hand. He shrugged himself into a half-up position and gulped the water greedily.

“How are you feeling?” Scott asked.

Stiles let the glass fall to the bed as he opened his eyes. He frowned and watched Scott carefully. After a moment he said, “Like hell.”

Scott fidgeted and glanced around the room. His eyes lingered on the door a moment too long. “Yeah, we figured.”

“We?”

“Its a really long story,” Scott said quickly.

“Tell me,” Stiles said, narrowing his eyes.

Scott gave Stiles a measured look and tried to sidestep the demand. “How much do you remember?”

Stiles hesitated to answer. _Remember what?_ Scott didn't look like he was setting up a trap, but with Scott it was so easy to tell him he was doing the right thing and then sit back to watch him bumble through all the worst in the world. Stiles fingered the cool glass and licked his lips. “Running.”

“That was part of it, yeah,” Scott said uneasily.

“Someone knocked me out.”

“That,” Scott said with a sigh, “was another part.”

“That's why I'm here?” Stiles asked. His voice cracked and he fought to keep himself from clapping a hand over his mouth in embarrassment. It was the hell of puberty all over again.

“No, uh, you're here because you have a broken rib and a bunch of other things wrong with you,” Scott answered with a frown. When Stiles didn't retaliate, Scott leaned back in the chair slightly. “The doctors said you had a concussion – not from Wraith, don't give me that look and don't blame him. A broken rib, two fractured ribs, extensive bruising, and, um, some other stuff.” Scott sounded like he was badly parroting what had been told to him as he ticked the things off on his fingertips.

“Doctors?” Stiles asked. Last he had checked, the Alphas ran the place. After he got out, they tried to force him into rehabilitation. His first day, he had been confronted with an Alpha and ran home to sit in his apartment for a week straight. Nothing in Beacon Hills was _safe_ anymore.

Scott looked significantly happier to be on a different subject. “Yeah, getting in here was a bitch,” he said. “But I'm sure you'll hear that story later and anyway, I wasn't here so I'll just get the details wrong.”

Stiles frowned but let it slide. “You were telling a story.”

Scott had the grace to look sheepish. “I was hoping you would forget that part.”

“Not a chance.”

“Alright. I'm paraphrasing here, okay? Wraith knocked you out and Derek carried you to Lydia's car – Lydia and Allison were in the preserve with the Argents. Derek, Wraith, and Oliver brought you to the hospital and the rest of us carried out the plan.”

“The suicide mission?”

“Actually, no one died.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow.

“Not even the Alphas.”

Stiles' expression clearly read, _I find that hard to believe._

“Peter was with the Alphas. It turned into a huge mess. I still don't trust him, but he came through for us in the end. I guess. He's creepy.” Scott shivered and shook his head. “Anyway, Isaac was with the Alphas. Erica is with them too, just not in Beacon Hills right now. They're not bad – or at least Isaac isn't. He came back to us during the fight.”

“And Derek?”

“Apparently he's fine with it.”

“And no one died.”

Scott shrugged. “Not on our end. Derek killed five Alphas getting into the hospital.”

Stiles shifted. He pulled himself up against the pillows. “That's it?”

“The others fled.”

 _Alphas running from a_ nobody _like Derek Hale?_ Stiles felt a slithering coldness in his gut. Either the Alphas were less structured than Stiles thought or Derek Hale had been fighting like a cornered lynx. Stiles had the sinking feeling it was the second option and it made his mouth go dry all over. Scott pushed another glass of water into his hand and he sipped it down carefully.

“Where's Derek?”

Scott looked uncomfortable but he had the sense to answer the question before Stiles bombarded him with it a dozen different ways. “He's busy. Actually, we're all busy.”

“You don't look busy.” Stiles had the feeling _busy_ meant watching him, but he didn't want to push the subject.

Scott shrugged. “Breaks.”

Stiles watched Scott across the short space. His best friend looked tired and worn out, more so than Stiles had seen him in ages. The infinite optimism still showed beneath his world-weary face and Stiles found himself wondering exactly what it would take for Scott to lose that. Then he found himself hoping Scott would never lose that, which surprised him almost as much as the last few days had been surprising him.

Stiles twisted the glass between his fingers. “So what do they have for food in this place?”

 

 

Four hours later, Scott was browsing the internet on what looked suspiciously like Stiles' old computer. Stiles decided to let it go. A heavy weight was settling over him and he nestled contentedly in the blankets of the hospital bed. In front of him the hospital tray held the remains of his first meal in three days. While it hadn't been a large meal it had certainly filled him up and he was drifting into sleep even if he didn't want to. Scott looked up from the laptop thoughtfully. Stiles pushed the rolling tray away so he could turn onto his left side, taking the painful weight off his right hip. Their eyes met and for a dizzying moment Stiles thought they were back in middle school, before all of this went so wrong. It was a Lacrosse game – looking for girls because that's just what they _did_ – and the opposing team had pulled a foul and there had been a big fight. Trouble, even then, was like a magnet to them. In the twenty minutes it took for the referees and parents to break up the fight, Stiles and Scott had gotten themselves into the middle of it and Stiles had been taken to the hospital with a concussion. Scott had a black eye and his mother had been furious with the both of them.

This was not like that, not even close.

“You should get some sleep,” Scott said.

“Right,” Stiles said with a heavy sigh that _ached_ in his chest. Somewhere right beneath the fractured ribs, he supposed.

“Do you need anything?”

“Are you leaving?”

“I can't stay here all day.”

“Oh, but I can.”

Scott opened his mouth to back-pedal and caught the smile on Stiles' lips. He rolled his eyes. “Its not forever.”

“It feels that way,” Stiles said.

Scott closed the laptop and tucked it into the messenger bag at the side of the chair. “I'll talk to the doctors in the morning and then we can decide what to do.”

Stiles shrugged. “No I don't need anything, by the way.” He wanted a lot of things, but asking Scott for them would be a lot like asking a toad to sing opera.

Scott got to his feet with the strap of the messenger bag in his hand. “I'll get you a change of clothes,” he said. He leaned over the bed and whispered conspiratorially, “ _You smell.”_

Stiles lifted his eyebrows. “More than usual?”

“Definitely.”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Get some sleep.”

Stiles didn't want to ask if Scott would be there when he woke up. Partly he already knew the answer, and partly he didn't want to know. Instead he turned onto his back as Scott turned the light off and shut the door. A million questions ran through his head, not the least of which was, _Where the hell is Derek?_ But he figured he could wait for the answer. Derek wasn't dead and that would have to be good enough information for the time being. The real question he should have been asking was, _What the hell am I doing now?_ He desperately wanted a drink, something stiff and powerful enough to knock him on his ass, but he was almost positive that, short of drinking rubbing alcohol, he wasn't going to get anything in the hospital. Somewhere between the rushing river of thoughts through his head, Stiles fell asleep.

When he woke up the world outside was dark. The only light came from the equipment behind him in a steady whirr of machinery and the pulsing blink of lights. He hissed as he lifted his hand to his face, completely forgetting the IV needle still sticking into his wrist. He had thought the only light in the room was from the equipment behind him, but just to the side of his bed was a glowing speck of red. He shifted and pulled himself against the pillows, half sitting. Squinting in the darkness he could just see the shape of someone thin behind the dull glow of a cigarette.

“You can't smoke in here,” he said.

“Pity.” The voice had an English tilt to it. _Wraith_.

“Why are you here?”

“Orders.”

Stiles didn't respond.

Wraith chuckled. “Scott dressed it up, didn't he? I guess he didn't tell you we're watching you on shifts, then?”

Stiles couldn't stop himself from shaking his head.

“I'm not going to knock you out this time, but we're not going to have a heartfelt chat about our feelings. Is that alright with you?”

Stiles hesitated only a moment. “Where's Derek?”

“Hmm,” Wraith answered. Smoke drifted up towards the dark ceiling. “Do you know how hard it is to be the voice of _reason_ to someone without any of his own?”

“What?”

“I hardly see how it will matter if I tell you now or you find out later,” Wraith drawled, seeming bored with the whole thing. “You've probably came up with more than a few ideas of your own about who – or _what_ – I am to him.”

Stiles felt his whole body stiffen. Yes, he had wondered, but no, he didn't want to know. Not really. It wasn't any of his business, especially if it was what he _thought_. If it was what he thought, he could already feel confusing, conflicting emotions bubbling up in his gut. Out loud, he said, “A few things came to mind.”

“A few things,” Wraith laughed and shook his head. He waved his hand dismissively and the ember of his cigarette floated through the darkness. “You're probably wrong on all accounts, you know. I wouldn't touch him with somebody else's. I am, however, the closest thing to replacing _you_ that he could find on such short notice.”

“Replacing... me?” Stiles asked hesitantly.

“From what I hear, you're better at researching, but I have an insider's view on the Alphas and I was the, shall we say, _next best thing_.” Wraith paused to suck down his cigarette and tap ashes into a styrofoam cup on the arm of the chair. He let smoke stream between his teeth as he grinned. “He would have certainly preferred you,” he added.

“Me?” The question was simple and short. _Derek Hale would have preferred me? For what?_

Wraith sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “The entire pack would have preferred you. They were absolutely wrecked about it, you know. It may not be much to you, but I had to live with the nutters.” He snorted and smoke blew out his nose. “Lydia told you about finding Derek in the shower. It wasn't an isolated incident. Managing him in those first months was like managing a manic depressive working in a razor blade factory.”

Stiles reached for the glass on the bedside table, still half full of water. He took a long drink to cover up his confusion and increasing interest in the subject. It was no use, Wraith could tell even without seeing his face in the darkness. After setting the glass down, Stiles said, “How did you get so close to him so _fast_?”

Wraith actually laughed out loud, a harsh bark that suppressed quickly into a snort. “I wouldn't have done it if I had a choice. It's a long story. Maybe for another time.”

Wraith was quiet long enough for Stiles to grow impatient. He let out a long, steady breath. “So where's Derek?”

“The last time he was in this room, he nearly ripped Scott's head off. We decided it was best to keep him busy. At the moment, I have no idea where he might be.”

Stiles squinted in the darkness, trying to tell if the ripping was a literal thing or a metaphorical thing. It was hard to tell with this group. “What's the situation out there?”

“You're asking like we're in a war zone,” Wraith scoffed. “The situation is nearly identical to the one Derek left two years ago, except some minor details. The Alphas are raging and they've burnt everything the Hales – we – have been using. This time, we have the advantage. The Hale pack, I mean. We've secured the hospital and Deaton is pulling in his contacts. The Argents have the entire town surrounded, no one in or out goes unseen.”

“Deaton,” Stiles said flatly.

“Derek said you didn't like him.” Wraith blew smoke out and dropped the butt of his cigarette into the styrofoam cup. “I can see where the unease comes from, but he's on our side, really.”

“Derek's side or the Alpha's side? How do I know you're not still _with_ the Alphas?” Stiles asked.

“You don't. But we're not talking about that, or I will knock you out again.”

Stiles licked his lips. “Okay,” he agreed. “When can I see Derek?”

“We weren't sure you would want to, so we haven't told him you were awake yet.” Wraith lit another cigarette. “I'll let him know right now, if you'd like. I'm sick of watching you like a toddler.”

Stiles bit his lip. “Yeah,” he said.

“Good. Wait here,” Wraith said. He got up and walked out the door, cigarette smoke trailing after him.

What seemed like a lifetime later, Derek Hale stood in the doorway. Stiles jumped in surprise at the sudden appearance, instantly pulling himself up against the pillows to sit straighter. Derek's stubble had grown in as a ridiculously scruffy beard and his bright eyes were rimmed in dark circles from sleepless nights. A thick bruise was fading over his left cheekbone and the clothes he wore were covered in dried blood and long rips. He stood framed by the doorway and scanned the room before walking in to sit down in the chair with a low grunt, as if it took all of his energy to hold himself up. His eyes met Stiles' and a long silence filled the room.

Stiles finally reached for his water, just for something to do, and sipped at it. He avoided Derek's eyes. Now that they were in a room together and _alone_ he wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to say to him in the first place. Maybe _fuck you_ for all the bullshit that had happened? He could demand answers, or he could demand to be taken out of this stupid hospital, or he could demand alcohol. He could possibly get away with demanding alcohol if he played his cards right. If not, there was really nothing stopping him from creating a complex plan involving escape and The Stray Dog – despite the Alphas. He could talk to the bartender and have a scotch and the world would be right back to how it was – not perfect but not this hellish disaster.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked. The words came out strained and cracked as if he had never said the three together before.

“Barely, no thanks to you,” Stiles answered.

Derek looked at him thoughtfully, eyebrows furrowing in concern. He lifted his hand and reached out but stopped and pulled it back to grip the arm of the chair. He didn't say anything for a long time. So long that Stiles became fidgety and had to fill the silence.

“Why am I being _watched_?” he demanded.

Derek looked surprised. “What?”

“You've had Lydia and Scott and Wraith in here day and night, watching me.”

“No.”

“I saw Isaac, too. _Why_ are they watching me?”

“They're not...” Derek hesitated. He lifted his hand again, but thought better. “They're not watching you, they were keeping me out.”

“I thought they couldn't go against their Alpha,” Stiles snapped. _Keeping Derek out? For what?_

“It wasn't like that,” Derek said. “I kind of lost control and they had to make a decision.”

Stiles searched Derek's face for any hints. He found only the grumpy, displeased face he remembered. “And now?” he asked.

“Now _what_?”

“Are you going to leave again, let me fend for myself? Or am I going to be stuck here like some... some... pet?” Stiles felt himself losing the thread he had started out with. His indignant anger had rushed to the surface like the bright beacon of a road flare and now it was fading away. Suddenly and unexpectedly he was losing his momentum. If he had any strength left to fight it, he would be angry about _that_.

“No. Well, no, I'm not leaving again, and if I do, it wont be without you. I'm sorry,” Derek blurted. His face twisted into an expression of pain and there was a raw wet shine in his eyes.

The words were so bare, not wrapped in any defensive garb, that Stiles couldn't respond.

“About everything. About your dad and leaving you here and coming back like this. I want you to know that I'm sorry. Even if you wont accept it. I never wanted any of this to happen. I tried so _hard_ to keep you out of it. I'm sorry.”

Silence. For what seemed like _forever_ Stiles stared at Derek's face with hawk-like concentration. Derek stared back with a weight behind his eyes that seemed to push his shoulders down. Stiles' eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness and he could faintly see the stress etched in lines across Derek's face and the dark circles beneath his eyes. Stiles wanted to know everything in that moment. He wanted to know where Derek had gone, what he had seen, and most importantly Stiles wanted to know what had happened in the last two days. Derek closed his eyes.

“I really have to piss,” Stiles said abruptly.

“ _What_?” Derek asked, startled into opening his eyes.

“I'm not going to ask how this process has been done for the last two days. I'm just going to ask that you help me get this-” Stiles motioned to the metal tree holding the IV bag “-into the bathroom with me.”

Derek looked confused for another beat. Then he put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. One hand gripped the metal and the other went out for Stiles. He pulled Stiles from the bed gently and held him up while wheeling the IV tree behind them. Stiles only grunted in thanks as he limped beside Derek, pained hisses of breath escaping between his teeth. Derek tugged the metal IV tree into the bathroom and Stiles leaned against the counter.

“Dude, get out, I'm not peeing in front of you,” Stiles said, after Derek failed to move.

Derek left the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Stiles _did_ have to pee, and he took care of that right after Derek closed the door. Then he stood against the wall, staring into the mirror opposite him, wondering how his life came to this particular point and guessing how many times he could have taken a different path. For a crystal clear moment he wondered what life would have been like without werewolves, then took it a step back and wondered what would have happened to them if the Alphas had never come into their lives. It had been such a crazy whirlwind since the Alphas came into Beacon Hills that anything else took too much imagination to come up with. He rubbed his face with one hand, pulling at the bags beneath his eyes. He looked like hell, more so than when he was trashed. A knock on the door made him jump.

“Stiles?”

“Uh, yeah, hold on,” he said quickly. He grabbed for the sink with his IV-line hand and yelped as it tore out. Blood bloomed on the white tape even before he slammed the water on and put his wrist beneath it. Pink washed down the sink. _Damn this thing bleeds more than I thought._ With his other hand, he grabbed a stack of folded paper towels and grabbed for the swinging IV needle. He slipped the needle under the bandage and was wadding paper towels onto his wrist when Derek shoved the door open. Stiles looked up.

“Don't knock or anything,” he said wryly.

Derek stepped forward wordlessly and reached out for Stiles. A second later, Stiles swayed on his feet, stumbled, and fell. Derek caught him. One hand over the towels on Stiles' wrist and the other around his waist, Derek carried him to the bed and sat him down. Stiles grumbled something with his face pressed into Derek's shoulder.

“I didn't get that.”

Stiles mumbled again and flopped his IV-free wrist feebly.

“You don't really... need it anymore,” Derek said.

“Mmm,” Stiles grunted. His face pressed into Derek's shoulder and the smell of aftershave and blood swelled in his nostrils.

“I can call a nurse and have them put in another one...”

Stiles shook his head against Derek's shoulder.

“It's late,” Derek started cautiously. He reached for a roll of surgical tape left on the bedside table and began wrapping it carefully around Stiles' wrist. “You should get some rest. I'll leave.”

“Stay.” It was the second time that Stiles had said that word to Derek. He lifted his head from the warm shoulder and looked up. “Stay and tell me a story.”

“A... story.” Derek's voice was flat.

“Little Red Riding Hood,” Stiles insisted. He dropped his head against Derek's shoulder, too tired to keep it up.

“I don't _know_ Little Red Riding Hood.”

“Because you _ate_ her,” Stiles grumbled with a smile on his lips.

“No – Stiles, what are you talking about?” Derek demanded.

“Tell me the one about how you brought me back to your place, or why you came to my apartment, or the one about how you followed me and saved me from the Alphas. In _detail_.”

Derek hesitated. His whole body was rigid, like he could smell a trap and was considering running hard and fast away from it.

Stiles sighed dramatically, then clenched his teeth in pain. His ribs were sore beneath the thin gauze around his torso. He pulled away from Derek and held himself up with both arms pressed against the bed at his sides. His IV-free hand clenched into a fist so as not to pull the wound any more than necessary. He looked Derek in the eye, nearly level with him. “I don't want to jump to conclusions or anything, but I think you know what I'm talking about. It sounds stupid saying it out loud so just help me out here,” he said.

Derek's mouth was a thin line and his eyes were narrowed in displeasure.

“I'm just saying you're not as _mysterious_ as you think you are,” Stiles said with a low sigh. He wanted something to do with his hands, but if he moved them he would fall flat on his face. He _wanted_ something to drink but he couldn't manage standing sober and walking to the bar was out of the question. He watched Derek and studied his face trying hard to see anything that said he was right. Half of him wanted to be right while the other half was still roiling in bitter resentment at the entire pack, and rightfully so. Some of it was fading but most of it still sat heavy in his gut.

Derek opened his mouth to say something and stopped himself. His hand reached out to cover Stiles' tightly. He didn't say anything for a while. The silence stretched out like fog and Derek let out a low laugh. “It does sound stupid out loud,” he agreed.

“You didn't _say_ anything,” Stiles pointed out irritably. Silence was his greatest social weakness, even now.

“I was thinking it.”

“I'll let you know when I develop mind-reading powers.”

Derek pressed his lips to Stiles' gently and hesitantly, a small breath hitched in his throat. Stiles opened his eyes wide and stared. A sound startled both of them and their heads turned towards the door. Wraith had a hand on the knob and one foot in the air poised to step into the room. His eyes shifted between Derek and Stiles.

“ _Ew_. I'll come back later,” he said stiffly, and exited the room. From the hall, he said, “ _About bloody time._ ”

Derek shook his head and Stiles let out a bark of laughter that hurt his ribs. The pair sat on the bed in a much less awkward silence than before. Derek looked down at his knees and his free hand – the one not over Stiles' – picked at the torn fabric of his jeans. He turned his eyes towards Stiles.

“I know you're mad, but I thought you needed to know.” Derek offered a small, pained smile.

“I'm pissed,” Stiles said. He wasn't playful. “I'm going to be _pissed_ forever, and no amount of _anything_ is going to change that.” He shifted his hand so their fingers twined together. “Maybe this can be a start. Don't get your hopes up.”

Derek didn't look hopeful or grateful, only relieved.

“And since we're on the subject, I want to talk to Lydia in the morning. I can't convince you to leave Beacon Hills so I guess I'll condemn myself to death by helping you.” He cut off Derek's protest with a blood-soaked wrist in the air. “I'm going to sleep because I feel like I got hit by a train. If you're staying, be _quiet_.”


End file.
